


LOVE! Rohirrim Style

by zeesmuse



Series: The Rohirric Cycle [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeesmuse/pseuds/zeesmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Note: This is the sequel to Rider of the Mark and is the second part of the Rohirric series <i>In the Appendixes of the Return of the King, Tolkien states that in the last days of the Third Age, Éomer, King of Rohan married Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. He also states that they had at least one child – a son, who greatly favored his maternal grandfather. He does not give specifics – was it a love match, a political match, an arranged marriage? Eternal romantic that I am, I would prefer…LOVE! Rohirrim Style.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - In the Cold of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to Rider of the Mark. Where you don't NEED to read Rider, it will help in some of the background characterizations. While this mostly follows the appendixes, I have stepped out on a limb and made Gamling a Marshal – of the Wold. (Well, it IS said in the appendixes that Éomer redid how things were done militarily after the War. Maybe the fact the Wold needed a Marshal was kinda forgotten.)

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# Love, Rohirrim Style

## Prologue

### In the Cold of the Night 

He waited until night fell, until it was quiet and he was alone. Patience was not his strong point; it never had been and the waiting taxed him sorely.

He looked around his small living area, well aware (and reminded often by his Marshal’s Lady wife) that his true rooms – the _King’s_ Rooms - were more spacious, more accommodating to someone of his prestige, his station. He had his reasons for not moving into them just as of yet. He told his Marshal, the man’s beloved, his people that he waited for the right time, for when _She_ arrived, to take up residence there.

Truth be told, he was afraid his uncle’s ghost still wandered there or worse, his uncle’s wife’s ghost. He had a reoccurring nightmare that on his own wedding night, the two would be floating in the curtains, telling him he was doing it wrong.

Bah.

For the umpteenth time, he circled the room, laid his ear to the door, making sure all was quiet outside. He double-checked the drop bar, establishing it was secure. With a silence not normally seen in a man his size and stature, he made his way to the window, determining no one could see into his chambers, even at the great height. It was cold and he reached out, bringing the latches closed, ensuring his privacy. He then lit all the candles around the bed, bathing the room in a gentle, flickering light. 

There was a chill in his rooms, one that lingered even after the shutters were bolted tightly, so he knelt by the hearth, starting and stoking the fire. He made sure the flue was opened – he made the mistake of leaving it blocked once years ago and not only smoked up his room, but left himself and the wench he was with coughing for dear life. 

Only when he had everything safe, locked, secure, the fire now gently crackling, only then did he sit in the chair, close to the hearth and relax. He reached inside his vest and removed the rolled parchment from its secured place, over his heart. With the air of long suffering, he drew the scroll beneath his nostrils, savoring the scent… _her scent_ … from the delicate outer lining. Looking over his shoulder, as if afraid someone had managed to get past the barrier, seeing what illicit thing he was up to, he watched, listened as two serving women went down the hall, the sounds of their mirthful chatter echoing beyond the door, down the passageway. Only when the gentle din died away, did he then break the seal and unroll it, savoring each word and line of the delicate handwriting as they became visible. A gentle smile stole across battle – hardened features as he read the first line…

_My dearest, darling Éomer…_

It registered to the King of the Horselords that the letter was in Rohirrim, the language of his people. At least, she was attempting to use Westron symbols to ‘sound out’ Rohirric words, as the Rohirrim had no written language. The gentle smile turned mischievous, almost feral and a growl of impatience rumbled through out the room.

This was going to be good…

_‘I miss you so. I cannot wait until this infernal drudgery of royal contracts and marital agreements between yours and my father’s kingdom…_

With a yip, Éomer laid the scroll to the side, peeled his clothing from his body, and with the giddiness of a young Rider on his first orc hunt, ran to his sleeping chamber, before remembering he had left his treasure on the small chair table, ran back to retrieve it and then leapt into his bed and stretched out over the furs.

_‘I miss you so. I cannot wait until this infernal drudgery of royal contracts and marital agreements between yours and my father’s kingdom are done and signed so I can get my hands on you...’_

Oh yes. It was going to be very, very good, indeed.

***

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v152/ZeeDippyVessel/Fic%20Artwork/?action=view&current=00bb.jpg)


	2. 01 - Grumpy Old Men

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#  Love, Rohirrim Style 

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##  Chapter 01 

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###  Grumpy Old Men 

The winter days and nights in Edoras were becoming rather… tedious, Éomer thought to himself morosely. He plopped his chin in the cup of his propped up hand and lifted his almost empty tankard to his mouth. He scowled at his table companion. “You are getting soft, old man.”

“What?” Gamling didn’t even look up. He had his daughter on his lap and she was chewing fiercely on one of her father’s old leather gloves. That tooth she was working on was taking its time and making Léoma fussy beyond belief.

Éomer slammed the tankard down. “You are soft!”

Gamling knew where this was going. He smiled down at the baby in his lap. “Tell that to Aefre,” he muttered between gritted, clenched teeth.

“He most certainly is not!” At the mention of her name, Gamling’s wife swooped down on the table and reached for their daughter. “Béma, Gamling! How old is that glove and when was it last used?”

“Ages, I do not know, I do not care, but it is making her happy.” He kissed Léoma’s checks before handing her up to her mother. “And a happy baby is a quiet, sleeping baby, so the rest of the household can sleep as well!…

_And I can get some!_

…Goodnight sweetling.” He turned to his own mug as Aefre moved from the Great Hall, listening to Léoma’s screams escalate until they were suddenly muffled when apparently Aefre gave in and gave her the glove back.

Éomer stared into his now empty mug. “It has snowed for weeks.”

“It is winter.”

“I want to hunt Orcs.”

“It is winter.” Gamling reiterated and took a pull, froth lingering on his moustache. “Besides, the Orcs have gone south.”

Éomer gave a snort. “They are scared of Beornia.”

Élfhelm, Marshall of the Eastenmet, stared morosely into his cup. The sudden early storm snowed many a Rohirrim into differing haunts. That he missed his wife and holdings was no secret. “I am scared of Beornia!”

Gamling smirked at the mention of his sister. She, along with her two sons, had moved to Edoras after the death of her husband in Gondor and taken over the parentless brood of Fyren. With the relocation and fostering of Fyren’s older boys, the household had settled into a healing, nurturing, if not noisy, rambunctious routine. Cynn, the blacksmith, was seen at the home several times during the week, conveniently at dinnertime, along with his young apprentice. Gamling grinned to himself and decided to just not go there. “I am afraid of her, as well.” He raised his tankard, more to cover his smirking facial expression than anything else.

Éomer waited until his tankard was refilled. He watched the swaying skirts of the young maid disappear into the kitchen area. “So am I.” He slowly nursed his ale, reliving battles, Gondor, The Gates, his uncle’s funeral…

As he drank more and more, his thoughts slid to her.

_Lothiriel._

Éomer was smitten; he knew he was. He had taken to rereading her letters in the depths of the night, keeping secret the very lustful thoughts he was having of the Princess. He hoped she was as earthy and needy as he was. Éomer was good at reading wenches, but ladies? Princesses? He was not so sure. Her letters _seemed_ to be… they were hot. At least, they made him hot, they seemed to be, well… as lusty as he was, even under the lady-like veneer. For not the first time, he considered asking his sister… or even Aefre if he was getting his signals right or wrong, for that matter, but for the thousandth time, he mentally talked himself out of it. He would hate to embarrass himself.

He took another dreg from his ale.

And another.

And another.

He took a lot of dregs from his ale. So many, in fact, that he lost count how many refills he had. Somewhere, he suggested something stronger and along with Elfhelm and Gamling, made their way stumbling, to the Blue Whale of Rohan where the women were more amenable.

Except tonight, none of the wenches were amenable. One even tried to refuse to serve the King; said he was already sodded. Bad enough, they were scared of Elfhelm’s wife, even if she was not there and they all knew Aefre and knew Gamling would not be doing anything but drinking spirits.

Elfhelm muttered they were probably scared of Beornia as well.

Which left a sour, grumpy king, looking as if he had fallen three times (he had fallen in the snow banks twice and rolled) on his way down. In the end, Wulfric served the group himself, giving his serving wenches the signal to give the group a wide, wide berth. He was not worried about Éomer, per se, but the last thing he wanted was not one, but two vengeful wives, assuming something that did not happen, had happened. Éomer was drinking heavily by now, unaware that his two Marshal’s were nursing drinks that weren’t very strong and simply waiting for the inevitable pass out. 

“Do y’think she’s pretty?”

Gamling eyed Elfhlem. “Which serving wench, my lord?”

Éomer thought for a moment. “Servin’ wennnnchhh?”

Gamling shifted irritably. This was not a conversation he was comfortable participating in. Elfhelm picked up his mug and answered nonchalantly, “Yes, my lord. Which serving wench has caught your fancy?”

Éomer slammed his tankard down, the infamous scowl on his face. “Not servin’ wench!” he yelled. All conversation came to a stop, the lute player in the corner (also snowed in and playing for not only room and board, but for two meals a day) hand lifted, the string still vibrating in the air. All eyes were wide and starring into the corner. Wulfric rushed over to the table.

“Sire? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Prin-cessss Loth-i-ree-el!” It took Éomer a moment to get it out, the effort obviously taxing his tongue. “D’ya think she’s preeettyyyy?” He was blearily focusing on the huge man behind him.

Wulfric cleared his throat, looking at both Marshals, who were nodding their heads ‘yes’ enthusiastically. “Sire, I have not met the Princess, however I have heard-“

“She is beautiful, Éomer.”

“Stunning.” Gamling got his one word in, before dipping his nose back into his tankard. He smacked Elfhelm to continue, rolling his hand to keep the conversation going.

“The perfect princess for the King of Rohan. She is –“

“Tiredofwaiting.” Éomer’s nose was so deep in the mug, the slurred words echoed in its chamber. “Tiredofwaiting.”

“Sire?”

“Schtop Sire-ing me!” Éomer spat sullenly. He pointed a wavering finger at Gamling. “Don schay it. Kings hash advishors. I know it. But Kings hash friendsh.” He sat the tankard down and covered the top, showing he did not want a refill. He took a deep breath before continuing slowly and deliberately. “Be my friendsh. I. Am. Tired. Of. Waiting.” Exhale. “There. Tiredofwaiting.”

Elfhelm smiled, totally understanding where the young king was coming from. “If you are tired of waiting, Éomer, go get her.”

“Elfhelm,” Gamling began quietly, “there are contracts, legal and binding documents-“

“To Mordor with the contracts!” Elfhelm now slammed his drinking mug down. “You can finish those when you get there.”

“Yeah!” Éomer perked up, sitting up taller.

Wulfric joined in. “That is right! She is your princess! Go get her! Do not wait another day!”

“Yeah!”

“They can finish up the agreements when you get there!” 

“Yeah!” A few patrons sitting close by were joining in now.

“Or after you leave, even!”

“Yeah!” It was becoming a rather rousing chorus of drunken sots along with the lute player.

“Who cares if the contracts are signed? Just go get her!”

“Yeah!” The serving wenches were joining in now.

“First thing tomorrow!”

“Yeah!”

“Who is going to stop you? Just go in and take her!”

“YEAH!”

Drinks were bought all around, and there was much drunken singing, celebrating the soon to be marriage of the King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth.

Late in the night, Gamling fell into his very happy marital bed. He snuggled up to his wife, smelling of ale and rowdy carousing.

“You were out late,” Aefre mumbled.

“Aye.”

“Did you drink much?”

“No.”

“Did you sing much?”

“Yesssss….” Gamling was starting to nod off.

Aefre smiled and wiggled her bottom into the spooned warmth of her husband. She mentally prepared herself to fall back into a deep slumber – well for as long as their daughter would allow her to sleep. “What did you sing about?”

“Éomer is going to go get Lotty-whatzername.” Gamling’s jaw cracked in a yawn.

“That’s nice. I did not realize the contracts were signed.”

“They are… not.”

Aefre’s body stiffened. “They are not?”

“Noooo…” The horselord’s voice was drifting off. “He is just going to go get her tomorrow morning.”

Aefre’s eyes flew open.

_Ooooooooh noooooooooooo…_

 

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v152/ZeeDippyVessel/Fic%20Artwork/?action=view&current=01.jpg)


	3. 02 - Sawdust in your eye... as well as your mouth and your hair

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# Love, Rohirrim Style 

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##  Chapter 02 

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###  Sawdust in your eye… as well as your mouth and hair. 

The early morning kitchen was bustling, busy as a beehive. Cook was wide-awake, already shouting orders; assistants were peeling potatoes, cleaning vegetables. A large boar from deep in the smokehouse was being carried up by two strapping teens, ready for spitting and roasting.

Aefre was up, Léoma fed and chewing contentedly on her father’s old glove. The young girl holding the babe on her lap giggled as Leoma mimicked the cook with her arm waving and shouting. If anyone else thought it amusing, they didn’t let on.

Eadignes was carrying a bag and following behind Gamling’s wife to the point of almost being attached to the woman. “Lady Aefre, I do not understand.”

“Simple.” Aefre continued to move through the kitchen, tossing various fruits and foodstuffs into the bag. She was making her way to the shelf where stored vegetables and caffe were kept. “I am sending Abéodan to Belfalis in Dol Amroth to warn the Princess that Éomer has a wild hair up his arse and to be prepared. I will attempt to delay the king as much as possible, but once that man gets his brain wrapped around something, he is as bad as Gamling!” 

“Ma’am?” Eadignes was one of the few that would speak up to Aefre, but she still did so with great respect and on occasion, some trepidation. “Edoras is snowed in. Many are trapped here. Elfhelm has been a veritable bear. Crácettan, the lute player has been forced to play for his supper and room. The drifts outside the walls are wicked high. It is cold. I really do not think Éomer King will be able to-” The girl jumped back, as Aefre spun around, her finger in her face.

“Where has the King been every night for weeks?” 

“Why… here in the common room. Well, last night, he went to the Blue Whale with Gamling and Elfhelm, but… oh ma’am, they did not do nothing but drink and sing. I have it on Crácettan’s word. Why, Éomer was so deep in his cups, only Wulfric would serve them!” 

“Exactly!” Aefre turned back to the shelf and began to take down dried tack, rations, and caffe. “He has been with no one and he complained bitterly last night he was tired of waiting.” She pivoted back to Eadignes, her arms full of containers. “She is beautiful, Eadignes; a lovely, intelligent young woman. She is caring, concerned for the well being of Rohan’s people. She has made certain that we have gotten more than enough to get us through these last two winters. She is learning to ride like a proper Rohirrim, speak our language. Don’t ask me how I know, but she has been practicing her Rohirrim by writing love letters to him.”

“How do you know that?”

Aefre turned back to the shelf and set the jars neatly on them. She began to pull the lids from the tops. “I said don’t ask! They are very…” Aefre tapped her finger on her lip for a moment, before putting more things into the sack and putting the canisters back in their places. “… earthy. She loves him, wants to be with him. And he loves her!”

“Béma!” Eadignes gasped in understanding. “That man’s balls are blue enough! No amount of snow will hold him back! He will go barging in like…” Dawning lit on the former whore’s face, “AEFRE!” All the noise in the kitchen came to halt, as everyone turned to stare at the girl. She blushed and whispered in a hiss. “He is liable to wrap her in his cloak right then and there on her father’s floor! Her people will think we are barbarians!”

Aefre was now heading out the back of the kitchens and towards the stables. “They already think we’re barbarians.” She stopped at the gardens, where Willan was shoveling snow from the soil. “Willan, go get Abéodan. Tell him to dress and pack warmly for a trip to Dol Amroth and to bring his gear to the stables now.” She continued to walk towards the royal barns before yelling over her shoulder. “And stop making mooney eyes at Eadignes. The two of you can steal some time at lunch!”

“AEFRE!” 

She looked over her shoulder in time to see her husband coming from the kitchen entrance, with a very determined look on his face.

He was also barefoot.

“What are you doing, you troll?” Gamling’s jaw began to flap, but she cut him off. “Go put on your boots – do not argue with me – just go put them on and meet me in the barns! You’ll have frost bite!”

“YOU DON’T HAVE A CLOAK ON!”

“But I have on SHOES! Just do it! And bring Léoma with you! Make sure she’s wrapped up warm! And bring my cloak while you’re at it!” She turned back towards barns muttering, “He is worse than a Dunlending. He’ll just get sick and I will have him to deal with him and then Léoma will get it as well, because she refuses to be parted from him. Next thing I know, the place will be a sick room full of whiney, crabby, snotty-nosed babies!” Aefre glanced over her shoulder at the young girl. “Is he trying to follow?”

Eadignes was giggling. “No ma’am. I do not think he was too pleased, however,” she whispered as if abetting a crime, “if you get sick, he will be none to happy and neither will your wee one.”

“Such a man,” she snorted under her breath. The two women hurriedly made their way to the barn, giving only cursory niceties to passerbys on their way to the stables. With the motion of someone who had done this many times before, Aefre flung the barn doors open wide, letting the early morning sunlight into the barn. The overwhelming smell of confined leather, horse-sweat, and shavings caused her to inhale deeply. It was a wonderful, pungent smell, one that she particularly enjoyed and did not get enough of these days. Family changed things, changed life. The retaking of Aefre’s deceased husband’s holdings – considered much too important to go to waste by Éomer – the past spring, had been an arduous, painful affair. Gamling was proven to be a capable Marshal and rebuilding the holding was well under way. There were times she didn’t get out of the hall, between Leoma and repairs and rebuilding…

Aefre shook her head. It was recovered, what was past, was past. Although still not habitable enough to winter there, they hoped to have the holdings repaired by the next winter. At the very least they would be able to plant in the spring. She and her previous cook had worked long, hard hours cleaning out the kitchen garden. They sodded and fertilized it well before the majority of the household had returned to her father’s land. She stepped into the dusty air.

And promptly sneezed.

“Abéodan’s stallion is the third stall down on the right,” Aefre said more to herself than to anyone. “His tack should be on the shelf in front of the stall, along with his saddle.” Aefre quickly cleared the top shelf and slung the rucksack upon it. She reached for Eadignes’s bag. “If you will saddle his horse, we can start his packing. Eadignes-” she saw the young woman bow up. “Daranau is quite gentle and sweet-natured. He won’t give you any trouble.”

“You are sure?”

Aefre had already turned back to the shelf. “Positive.” She watched as the young woman walked down the corridor and timidly peeked over the railing at the large stallion. “Are you certain you are Rohirrim?” Eadignes shrugged gamely before opening the stall door. “Oh, just… treat him like a man you are buttering up! They are no different!”

Eadignes disappeared inside the stall. “Sweet boy. What a big man…”

The stable was quiet, while the two women worked, Aefre carefully going through supplies and separating foods and things. She thought about the mission she was sending the young Rider on, without consulting her liege. Éomer had quite the temper and most likely would be furious with what she was doing, but after what her husband said the night before and knowing the King as well as he did… well, she would just deal with the consequences of her actions. She had dealt with Gamling, she thought to herself. Surely she could handle a love-sick King.

If he was horrid, well, she would simply put a few herbs in his caffe or tea that would make him sit down and think twice. Make his stomach churn. He would not be able to stand back up for quite some time.

“Ma’am?” Abéodan was young, but one of the most reliable young Riders in Edoras. She was pleased when he chose to make the move with Gamling to the Wold and was moving quickly into a captain’s position. He was dressed warmly and was carrying his bedroll, a supply sack, his sword and staff, his empty saddlebags slung over his shoulder. He eyed the things Aefre had piled on his tack shelf. “Apparently, the king is sending me on a serious mission.”

“No.” Aefre took the saddlebags and slung them over the saddle hump. She threw open the flaps and began to pack them. “I am sending you to prevent what could turn into a serious misunderstanding, but for your own sake, tell him I lied and told you he was sending you.” Her hands were deep in the recesses of the bags. “Éomer has apparently decided to retrieve Lothiriel, even though the contracts are not signed or finalized. He’s got it in his head that he can just go get her and be done with it.”

“Not good.”

“No. Personally, I don’t think there is much more to be done on the contracts. They simply need to be signed. Perhaps a few things; at least I hope only a few small things.” The bags were filling up quickly. “But if Éomer charges in like a wild thing from Calenardhon, he could damage that marriage before it begins.” She finished packing the things she brought and reached for Abéodan’s bag.

“What would you have me do?”

“I suspect,” Gamling stepped into the barn, a squealing Léoma perched on his shoulders, “my lady-wife intends to delay Éomer, while you kill yourself in the snow, attempting to get to Dol Amroth to warn the princess that her intended is on his way.”

Léoma realized that one of her favorite riders was in her general vicinity. “Abbee! Abbee!” She reached out with both hands, fingers out-stretched. Out of habit, the young Rider reached for the babe and transferred her to his own shoulders. 

“Gamling.” In a way, Aefre sounded relieved. “I was hoping you would help me delay Éomer. Was he seriously thinking of just storming Dol Amroth? And are you wearing stockings?” She pointed at his boots.

“I will. Yes. No.” He grinned broadly. “You said boots, not stockings.”

“The horse is saddled up.” Eadignes exited the stall. “We just need to add the bed roll and saddle bags. What else would you have me do?” She tickled Léoma’s foot, making the baby kick and squeal louder.

“Abéodan, did Willan go back to the gardens?” The young Rider continued to bounce a very happy baby on his shoulder, oblivious to the activity around him. Gamling smirked and continued. “I will take that as a yes.” He turned to Eadignes. “Tell Willan to rouse Haleth. Have him dress warmly for a long trip and to pack accordingly. That boy is getting ready to earn his first cloak. Then go to the kitchens and pack a traveling ruck for him and bring down some cheese, bread and milk. Enough for two. Go to the Blue Whale and bring up four bottles of hard Rohirrim Whiskey. Tell Wulfric I’ll pay him later today. Hand me Léoma.” He reached up to transfer his daughter.

Aefre was bringing Abéodan’s horse from the stable. “Why Haleth? And what are you doing?”

Gamling was roaming the stalls, peering into each one. “Aha! Perfect!” He opened a stall door and went inside. When he came back out, his arms were empty. He shut the stall door and came back up the corridor. His finger was up, pointing at his wife. “Before you yell, it is clean, it is enclosed, she has toys, including my glove, she is occupied, she is safe; we have work to do and will not get it done trying to amuse her. She will be content for at least a little while. I hope.” He drew up next to Aefre. “I am thinking to send Haleth to tell Éowyn to join us in Dol Amroth.” He continued, passing her and opened the storage room. “He is her brother and she will be furious if not given enough time to attend the wedding.”

“Gamling! He is only 13 summers!”

Gamling was pulling tack and a saddle from the training room. “There are alfalfa squares in the tack room. Grab a few handfuls for both horses.” He was oblivious to Aefre’s glare and watched as Abéodan attached his saddlebags and sleep roll to the rear of his own saddle. “I was delivering messages between my father’s holdings and Edoras at ten summers. At eleven summers, I was going to Aldburg several times a year. I will make sure he earns his cloak with this ride.” 

“Ma’am,” Abéodan began quietly, “I was only seventeen summers during the War. I have brought messages many leagues since I was eleven summers. He will be fine.”

Aefre returned from the tack room. She laid a fistful of cubes on the shelf with Haleth’s beginning collection of supplies and opened a burgeoning saddlebag on Daranau’s rump. She dropped the cubes in the already full pouch, making sure Abéodan saw what she was putting in. “Does he even have a proper Rohirrim cloak?” Gamling shook his head. Aefre refastened the saddlebag and thought for a second. “Make sure he gets mine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Lufien would be pleased.” At the mention of her long-deceased, but beloved and respected first husband, the stable fell silent, except for the giggling of Léoma joyfully throwing sawdust in the air, dust raining down in her red-kissed curls.

Finally, Gamling cleared his throat. “I will retrieve it from your trunk and then I will go to the southern lookout posts and see if there is a clearing anywhere in the snow.” Gamling left the stables, not bothering to wrap himself against the cold.

Eadignes returned with the cheese and bread and a large flagon of milk and two full bags just as Abéodan was finishing up with his bedroll and saddlebags. He was wolfing down the hot bread when Haleth arrived.

“Willan pulled me out of bed and pointed to the stables.” He took the offered cheese from Eadignes without wondering or asking why a meal was waiting for him.

“Haleth?” Aefre began, “Bring me your tack and your horse and then return to you room and pack a warm bedroll, clothing, sword and knife, and traveling gear; enough to last for a long trip.” She smiled gamely as Léoma squealed. 

“My cloak isn’t very heavy, Aefre. It’s not a-”

“You are going to earn your first Rider’s cloak, Haleth. I am loaning you Lufien’s in the meantime.” Haleth’s jaw dropped. “This is very important. Now, go do as I tell you.” She watched as the boy lopped down the stables, to the end of the row.

“Lady Aefre.” Eadignes touched her gently on the shoulder. “He’s a good lad. He’ll be fine.”

“I pray Béma watches over him. And his father as well.”

***

Gamling returned with Lufien’s cloak slung over his arm, Aefre’s head bent in a strange huddle with Abéodan and Haleth, both Riders nodding enthusiastically. Aefre looked up when she heard the door open. “If you go east a few leagues, the snow looks less dense.” He handed Lufian’s cloak to Haleth, proud to see the boy received it reverently; his hand stroking the fine wool and making sure it didn’t drag in the dust. 

The boy flung it outwards, the material fluttering out and around as he settled it around his shoulders and did the simple clasp around his neck with ease. The cloak was discreet, modest and unadorned and as he grew and moved forward in his training, braids, trims and ornaments could be added. 

“You have practiced that move, boy.”

Haleth had the good sense to blush. “My grandmother has my father’s first cloak. Many times…” he looked away as he inhaled deeply, regaining control, before continuing with great difficulty, “…many times at night, I have taken it out, just to look.”

_*And practice. I did it as well. *_

“Haleth,” Gamling began gently, “would you like to have your father’s first cloak when you have earned it?”

First cloaks were a thing of pride for young, Rohirric men. First Rider cloaks were new, unused, much like a Rider’s wedding cloak, something precious to be treasured. Many a mother, a father would go without fine or desired things, to provide the bright green dyed wool for a son’s first cloak. There were times when sheep wool was hoarded for a year, two years, before being spun out for that wonderful, anticipated gift of clothing.

But Háma had been Gamling’s best friend; they fostered together, trained together. They wenched together in their younger years and when Háma married, Gamling stood by his side, calling the fire to light his marriage bed. He officially found them wrapped in Háma’s wedding cloak. Háma adored his children, found peace and awe cradling those tiny bodies in the crook of his arm and Haleth had all but worshiped his father and taken his death so very hard.

“YES! Please!” Haleth burst in a rush. “Please. If she will let you have it.”

Gamling nodded once. “Do both of you know what to do? Where to go and say?”

Abéodan was on his horse, settling into his saddle and making sure, one last time everything was secure. He wrapped his cloak firmly about him. “I am ready.” He held his hand out, waiting for the neck mark that Gamling held. He then made his way from the stable door, picking slowly and quietly. No one was out, the cold keeping all huddled close to home fires. Still, he walked calmly and deliberately, in no hurry until he reached the gate.

“Haleth. Head for Minas Tirith. Keep the mountains to your right and the river to your left, except when you cross Mering Stream in the Firien Woods. You cannot miss it.” The boy nodded. “Éowyn and Faramir might be there; if not, ask politely for the King. Elessar will know where they are.” Haleth nodded again. Gamling then handed him an identical neck mark. “This is the King’s Messenger Mark. Wear it and never take it off. Do not let anyone take it from you, even for a closer look. It will guarantee you safe passage through out the Riddermark and on the main roads through Gondor. Seek the inns to sleep. You will be guaranteed a warm place to rest and food to eat. Your horse will be cared for. If you cannot find an inn, use a barn, but make sure the farmer knows you are there and on king’s business. Pick and clean the stall before you leave. Do not swive their daughters.” 

Aefre snorted. “The things you put in that child’s head…”

“No.” he pointed a finger at his wife. “No longer a child.” He looked back at Haleth. “There is a bottle of Wulfric’s best whiskey in your saddlebag.” He patted the pouch for good measure. “It is very strong, but it will warm you from the inside. Do not drink it, only the occasional, small sip, or it will make you sick! Minas Tirith is beautiful. There are seven levels and you must know the passwords to enter each level. Show them your mark and tell them you are on urgent business for the King of Rohan and you seek his sister, wife of Prince Faramir. On your horse.” The boy quickly mounted as well. Gamling nodded to his wife. “What did Lady Aefre tell you to say?”

“I am to inform Lady Éowyn that her brother has gotten a wild hair to ride into Dol Amroth and take the Princess to wife. Hurry up or you will miss the wedding.”

Gamling nodded in approval. “Not bad. Pretty thorough.”

“Thank you.” Aefre gave him a perky curtsy. “I felt honesty would be best.”

“On your way.” Gamling smacked the horse’s rear-end. They watched as Haleth followed Abéodan’s trail, using the horse’s tracks to widen the path, before turning the curve down through the gates.

“Please promise me he will be okay.”

“You may spit me up my spine if he is attacked by orcs.”

Aefre looked at him askance and snorted. “The orcs have gone east, you warg.”

“True.”

“It is because they are scared of Beornia.” 

Both went to the empty stall, to find Léoma sound asleep on her cloak, a glove in her mouth and sawdust in her hair.


	4. 03 - Linens 'n things

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#  LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

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##  Chapter 03 

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###  Linens ‘n things 

Éomer sat glumly on his throne, his chin cupped in his hand.

“Here sire,” Aefre handed him a steaming cup. “Drink this.”

He looked up at her, malcontent clearly defined in his not so bright blue eyes. “Does it taste like shite?”

“Yes sire, but it will make you feel better.” She again offered the cup.

He took it with a snarl and gulped it down, before gasping and gagging. “Béma, that is awful!” He thrust the cup back at the noblewoman. With an audible thud, he propped his boot on a nearby footstool.

“It is your own fault.”

He shoved his entire left cheek into this hand, glaring. “I will bet that Gamling’s head does not pain him.”

“He did not drink as heavily as you, last night. Did you not notice?”

“Elfhelm-”

“Did not as well.”

Elfhelm was strolling through the back of the Great Hall and saw Éomer slouching on the throne. “Good morning, Sire!” He yelled, causing Éomer to flinch. “How fare you this morning?” He waved and jumped up and down like a child, taking obvious advantage of his King’s bad disposition.

“Tell him,” he muttered to a still hovering Aefre, “that I am having his head cut off at sunset.”

“Certainly, sire.” Aefre stepped down from the dais and called across the room, causing Éomer to cringe again, “Éomer King’s head pains him due to his over indulgence last evening. He is irate that you do not share his condition and therefore has ordered you to be beheaded at sunset.” 

Elfhelm stopped and drew up. “My wife will declare war upon the throne,” he bellowed in mock indignity. “I will send a messenger immediately!” He ran from the Great Hall, much to the laughter of the servants.

Éomer sank back into his chair, snarling with discontent and staring at the ceiling. “She would too, you know. She would have me hung and gibbeted by tomorrow evening.” He glared at Aefre. “And would be eating my food.”

“Sleeping in your bed, even.” Aefre’s tone was that of a well-respected sage.

“Aye.” He went back to searching the ceiling for hidden mountain men. “She’s scarier than Beornia.”

Aefre rolled her eyes. “Why are the Horselords scared of Beornia?” She waited for him to settle down a bit. “Éomer, why do you not lie down and take a nap? You’ve not slept well and obviously your head pains you greatly.” 

Éomer went back to his cupped hand and groused. “No. I need to call up my Éorlings. We have plans to make.”

“Plans?” Aefre yanked the footstool out from under Éomer’s boot and sank down on it, ignoring the loud _clump_ it made when it hit the granite floor. She smiled up to the young king. “Are you thinking of a winter party?”

“Nooo---” Éomer drug it out vindictively. “I have decided to travel to Dol Amroth and retrieve Lothiriel.”

“Ah! The contracts are signed?” Aefre was genuinely perky. 

It grated on Éomer’s nerves.

“Nooo.” Deep down, he knew this wasn’t going to go well, so he decided to just spit it out. “I tire of waiting. I have decided to go get her and marry her. Contracts be damned!” 

“Might I ask, have you prepared the King’s Chambers for the two of you?”

Éomer looked puzzled. “The King’s Chambers?”

Aefre looked at him as if he were a small child. “Yes, sire. The King’s Chambers.” Éomer continued to look confused. “The Royal Chambers. Théoden’s rooms?”

“The… Royal… Chambers…” The words were obviously sticking to the roof of Éomer’s mouth.

Gamling came into the Great Hall, heading toward the dais.

“Dear Béma in the Sky!” Aefre had the indecency to sound affronted. “Surely, you did not plan to bring her back to Meduseld to that tiny, cramped space you call a room!”

Upon hearing his wife’s voice raised in ire, Gamling fastidiously changed direction and headed towards the kitchen.

Éomer’s jaw began to flap slowly. “Well… I… I… I did not think…”

“You did not think? Béma’s Balls!” Aefre might have been sitting down, but to Éomer, she was standing twelve feet tall and making him feel smaller by the minute. “Éomer King! Has it been so long since you’ve been with…” Aefre continued to rant, consonants clicking as if thousands of arrows had been launched at the wall.

Éomer’s headache continued to pound. “Did you just swear?”

“… need new linens and of course, we must completely redecorate the chambers, air it out, freshen the wall hangings, do a proper cleansing. We need to prepare a celebration, spit shine the Hall. It’s not every day the King of Rohan marries!”

Éomer’s head was now thumping along with Aefre’s loudly punctuated words. “Can I not just go get her? Surely, we can do all of this when I return.” The young King was searching for words. “I am quite sure she would like to pick out her own linens.”

Aefre was not listening. “Of course, we will have to wait until spring, when the flowers bloom, so we will have plenty of greenery throughout the Hall, to make proper bridal wreaths-“

“Flowers? SPRING? I want to get her now!”

“We shall also have to get the good pewter trenchers and eating utensils. Make sure there is no mold or crust-”

“Aefre, please. I truly appreciate this, but I want to get her now.”

Aefre looked up at him, finally, and announced, “Sire, in case you have not noticed, it is snowing out. There is no possible way the Éorlings can muster up and send out a royal entourage to Belfalas! There is not as much as an uncivilized mountain man out in this weather!”

“FINE!” Éomer shot to his feet. “The Éorlings can stay behind and… decorate!” He thrust his chest out. “I’ll just go by myself!”

“By yourself.” It was a statement, rather than a question.

“Yes!” It was a pronouncement, an edict. “I. Will. Go. By. My. Self!” 

Aefre set the cup Éomer had just drank from gently on the floor. “I see.” She exhaled loudly. 

“Lady Aefre,” he thrust a finger in her face, “you are beloved to my Marshal and to me but do not test me.”

“Well then, as your mind is made up, I supposed I should gather up what few provisions we have, stockpile the weapons-”

“Stockpile weapons? Why should you stockpile weapons?” Éomer looked truly confused. “You need to decorate, prepare linens…”

“Why,” Aefre picked up the cup and stood up. She began going down the steps on the dais. “To prepare for the war, of course.” She sighed heavily. “I supposed we could use the linens for bandages. There will, of course, be many casualties.”

Éomer jumped from his chair and followed her down. “War? What war?”

She turned and looked at him with pity. “Why, the war you will start with Dol Amroth when you steal the princess. Surely, you did not think you can just storm in and wrap her in your cloak without some sort of retaliation, did you? Hmm,” she mused, pursing her lips, “I wonder which side Gondor will take. Very sticky, this one will be.”

“Lady Aefre… Aefre… please… wait.” Éomer’s hands grasped at meaningless air. “I simply tire of waiting! All this… senseless… political… stuff.”

Deep inside, Aefre truly felt sorry for her king and she hated manipulating him this way. In his heart, he was still just Éomer. Éomer in love, not Éomer, King of Rohan, with all of its political intrigue and trappings. Truth be told, this Rohan he was master over was not the same Rohan as Théoden’s or any of the kings before him. The mantle of kingship was not one he wore with ease, much less was prepared to wear. A serving girl passed nearby and Aefre called her over, giving her the cup to take to the kitchens. “You love her, don’t you, Éomer?”

There was a moment as Éomer regarded his Marshal’s lady. “Might I speak frankly?”

“But of course, Sire.”

“Friend to friend? Not king to subject.”

Aefre knotted her brow. “Would you rather speak with Gamling? He was putting Léoma down for a nap and then going to the stables…”

Éomer shook his head. “No. I need a woman…”

“Ah. Might I suggest…”

“NO!” he yelled. Everyone in the Hall stopped what they were doing and stared. “No!” he hissed. “I do not NEED a woman. I need a woman’s advice!” He looked around. Everyone was still staring. “And not here, where everyone can listen in.”

Aefre looked at the young king, deep in thought. She turned to the nearest person – a young man, lugging empty water buckets for the kitchen. “Is there work being done in the barns today?”

“Cleaning stalls, exercising horses in the gallery.”

She nodded. “Good. Take those buckets to where you need and then go down to Beornia’s home and tell her to send the children to the barns to help with the cleaning and then meet me in Théoden’s rooms. Find Eadignes or Willam and have both also meet me in the Royal Chambers. Now go.”

“Beornia? You’ve sent for Beornia?” Éomer squeaked.

“What IS it with your unreasonable fear of Beornia?” Aefre headed off towards the Royal Chambers.

Éomer hung his head, mumbling as he followed. “She is scarier than you.”

The trip to the Royal Chambers took no time, whatsoever. For the first time since Théoden left for war, the door to the private apartment was opened. The room was cold, musty, and dust rose in the frigid air. Without thought, Éomer clasped his arms to ward off the chill. “Now,” Aefre spun on her heel, “what is it you wish to speak to me about in private?” She pulled him into the front chamber and pushed the door to, but not completely closed. “Come now, we don’t have all day. The others will arrive shortly”

Éomer had been searching for the right words since he spilled them out by accident. “Well, it is about… Lothiriel.”

“What about her?”

Éomer searched for a moment and then sank into the closest chair. “I… well… I do not know if she… if I…”

“Are you afraid she is having second thoughts?”

“Well... no. I mean, her letters… well it seems she wants to join me. I’m just… well…”

Aefre scowled. “Spit it out! You’re at war here.”

That irked the young king. “I love her! I do not wish to be with anyone else. She says she wants to be with me but I want to be sure she wants to be with me!” He finally looked at his Marshal’s wife, who was looking at him as if he’d grown a second head. “She is not writing in Westron, she is attempting to write in Rohirrim-“

“Sire, the Rohirrim have no written language.”

“I know that. It’s like she’s trying to spell Rohirric words in Westron. Sometimes, it is a bit difficult to translate.”

Aefre smiled coquettishly. “Sire? Is the Princess writing naughty love letters to you?”

Éomer blushed clear to his blond roots.

“I will take that as a yes.” She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I would suppose that if the letters are not formal and she is trying to write to you in code or Rohirric, suffice to say, she wants to be with you.” The door creaked, causing her to stand up straight and Éomer to look over his shoulder. Beornia burst into the room, her winter cloak still slung carelessly over her shoulders.

“That crazy kitchen boy came down and told me there was a dire emergency in the royal chambers and I was to send the children to the barns!” There was the sound of running feet as both Eadignes and Willan thundered in behind her.

“AEFRE! We were told-”

“What is the emergency? Do we need bandages? Herbs?”

“Does the king need a poultice?” 

“Éomer King has decided to marry.”

Beornia exhaled in a gush. “Well of course he’s getting married-“

“In twelve weeks, as soon as spring is truly here.”

“Twelve weeks?” Éomer shot up from his seat. “Twelve weeks? I want to leave today!”

Aefre didn’t even look over her shoulder. She perused the room, mentally taking note of the work that needed to be done. “Sire, we’ve discussed this. Rushing in to get her-”

“Would cause a horrific uproar! Her family would hate you!”

“She would be resentful.”

“I am not waiting twelve weeks!”

“Fine. When the last snow falls and the planting is finished, ten weeks…”

“Noooo! That is too long! Two weeks!” Éomer was thrusting two fingers in Aefre’s face. “Two!” 

“Really sire. There is so much to be done.”

Eadignes and Beornia were now unleashed in all their womanly ire, chiming in with Aefre. 

“Sire, you need a wedding cloak and those are not created in a day!”

“This room is disgusting! Surely you cannot possibly think to bring her back in all this dust and rankness!”

“Linens. Surely she will want new linens.”

“Helgarda will want to help with the wedding cloak. Béma knows she cannot see a stitch, however she will be insulted if she is not included. She brags about making Théoden’s wedding cloak!”

“Béma! When was the last time this fireplace was shoveled out? It is beyond foul!”

“All right. Four weeks. I shall wait four weeks!”

Éomer was ignored. Willan was holding the spittoon, tilting it so the inside could be seen and pointing in it. The look on his face said it all.

_*eeeeeeeeew!*_

“The wall hangings! They are so filthy, they have no color!

“The bed curtains… Willian! Shake the bed curtains!” The giant mute did as he was told, causing a copious amount of dust to fly into the air and sending all three women into a spontaneous chorus of choking. 

“The mattresses must be aired out and turned,” Aefre opened the trunk at the foot of the bed, “Oh Great Steed of Béma! Théoden’s clothes are still in here! Éomer, have you not dealt with any of his belongings?”

“Six weeks. I shall wait six weeks. But I need to leave-”

There was a scream from the antechamber. Three diminutive mice ran from the small room.

Éomer sank back into his chair. “Eight weeks.”

A heavy, calloused hand clamped down on his shoulder. “I wondered why,” Gamling began, “the barns were suddenly infested with children. Now, I know.” All movement stopped and four sets of eyes of various shades of blue (and one shade of brown) turned to the Marshal. “Eight weeks, but we will try for six, correct, My Lord?”

Éomer visibly relaxed. “Eight weeks, but we’ll try for six. Yes, Gamling. Exactly as I wanted.”

Aefre bowed her head. “Eight weeks. So be it.”

“So be it.” The women echoed.

The Horselord bent over. “A word of advice? My Da told me many years ago that weddings were for the women. Best let them do as they will and wear what they say. Just so long as you wrap them in your cloak when the time arrives.” He clapped him on the shoulder and turned to leave. “Aefre, attend me outside for a moment.”

With an obedience rarely seen, Aefre meekly followed her husband into the hallway. They went down the hall for a short ways before Gamling turned and whispered, “Is that enough time, m’lady?”

“Six to eight weeks? Truthfully no, but it is more time than I thought he would give us. You were wonderful, coming in when you did.”

Gamling looked around to ensure there were no eavesdroppers. “ I fully expect you to show me how wonderful I am tonight!” Aefre grinned. “Pray the snows are over by then. I will send Riders to the Marshals and muster the higher born Rohirrim.”

“Aye,” Aefre finished for him. “Éomer will not think of it, but he will need to be accompanied by a royal entourage. A formal Éored.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “I will check on Léoma. If she is up, I will bring her to the barns with me.”

“She barks orders with the best of them.” Aefre then returned to the chaos she purposely caused.

***

Far off, in a city by the ocean, a young woman stood at her window, staring not at the sea, but gazing anxiously at the far off mountains to the northeast. Emerald drops lay in a net over her dark hair, and bright green eyes squinted, trying to see a far off land over the horizon. As some of her family had noticed recently, she nervously twisted the hammered ring on her finger, her thumb rubbing the horse etched on it.

And farther still, the hooves of a solitary horse beat in rhythm against the snow, flying through a white cloud, frozen tundra, towards the sea.

His Rider named him well.

Daranau.

_Thunder_

_*** tbc***_


	5. 04 - A crown of horses

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# LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

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Chapter 04 

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### A Crown of Horses 

“Father!” Imrahil stopped in his tracks, an automatic smile pasted on his face before he turned to face his rather bossy daughter-in-law. As much as he did love her, sometimes, she could be a bit… pushy. He turned and bowed slightly.

“’Lataie. How fare you this morning?” He gave her kiss on the cheek. 

She returned his affection enthusiastically. “Spring cannot come soon enough! I swear, this has been the coldest winter I can remember.” She stepped back and perused the man for a moment. “May I speak openly for a moment?” 

Imrahil looked at the clerk who was attempting to give him the morning’s harbor reports. The man dipped in reverence and stepped to the side, as if that short distance would remove him from the conversation. Imrahil then spread his hands, palms up, motioning to the large hall. “When have you never spoken openly?” He winked at her. “I know; my son finds it charming,” he chided gently.

Gorothalataiel was a beautiful woman, if not a spitfire. She had glorious dark red hair, which flowed like a river when not piled on her head. Right now, determination was set on her porcelain face. “It is about Lothiriel.”

“Is she ill?” Imrahil was immediately concerned. She was his only daughter and the fact he doted on her was well known to all his subjects. “She broke her fast with me not an hour ago-“

“Oh, she is not that sort of ill, but she is love-sick and I am rather worried about her. So is Alagardaien, truth be told.”

“Hmm.” He put his hands behind his back and proceeded to stroll down the long hallway, the clerk following along behind. “Love-sick? I have not noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Father, please, I am most worried about her!” Lataie rushed to get in front of him. She turned backwards, so she could address him face-to-face, all the while continuing to walk while backing up. She lifted her skirts and kicked them out of her way “She is listless and twists that ring the King of Rohan gave her incessantly. I fear she will rub the insignia off before he comes to get her. She does not go out-“

“It is cold,” he reminded her.

“Aye, but I tried to get her to go shopping with Daien for items for her and Elphir’s baby and she refused.”

“She refused to go shopping?” Imrahil stopped, the clerk barely stopping in time from running into the Prince’s back. Lothiriel was never one to overspend her allowance and rarely asked for additional or frivolous things. In fact, she had spent most of her moneys for the people of Rohan, still struggling after the war. But by Ilúvatar, the girl loved to shop. “What excuse did she give?” 

Lataie sighed. “She said she would want to shop for her wedding clothes, but there is that silly superstition about buying things before the wedding date is set.”

“Ah,” Imrahil resumed his slow walk. “Well, the contracts are not finalized and I do not expect all the signatures and final details to be hammered out until the spring, when the snow melts and regular messengers will return. I suspect she can count on a late summer or early fall wedding.” He smiled hopefully. “Or if I am lucky, the following spring!” He went to move around his daughter-in-law and motioned to the clerk. “I am so happy we had this chat.”

Lataie let out a sigh of exasperation. “FATHER IMRAHIL!” He stopped and turned. “She stands at her window looking out to Rohan constantly. She does not go out, except to ride that wild horse Éomer gave her and practices her Rohirrim with that crass man who came with her!”

Imrahil thought for a moment. “That crass man happens to be a very respected Rider and groom, who enjoys the favor of the King of Rohan. What he has taught our own stablemen has strengthened our Cavalry.”

“He is sleeping with Thelielveril!” 

“Lothiriel’s maid servant?” Imrahil sounded skeptical before he shrugged. “Perhaps that is why the old battle ax has been in a sweeter temper as of late. More power to him!” 

“Father, please. I fear she is wasting away.”

Imrahil appeared to be staring at a portrait of some long-dead ancestor. “Tell the family that we will be having dinner together in the dining hall. I’ve not spent time with my family in quite some time and I would like to hear what they have been up to.” He turned and strolled down the hallway, hands behind his back and deep in thought, leaving the clerk to wonder if he and his reports had been forgotten about.

*** 

Edoras was becoming a bustling madhouse, thanks to Aefre and Beornia. Servants rushed to and fro, every stitch of linen boiled and hung in the cold sun to dry. Wall hangings were taken down, gently, tenderly washed and dried before being steamed and rehung. Helgarda and Eadignes were judging cloth on Éomer’s wedding cloak, with orders from Aefre to be sure it was fully cut. The two argued over color; it was too bright, too dull, too dark, too faded. The two had gone through so much fine wool, Aefre was afraid they would have to go deeper into their stores. As she went through the hall, she heard their voices raised in ire, as was normal. She shook her head and continued to the King’s Chambers, her arms laden with freshly laundered bed hangings.

So, she was much surprised when she entered the rooms to see Théoden’s clothing trunk open, his garments slung about the floor and the bed, and the top of Éomer’s head peeking from over the mattress. His feet were crossed and curled and from the looks of it, he was hunched completely over.

She heard a stifled sniff.

Thinking he hadn’t heard her come in, she tiptoed back to the door and shut it firmly. Aye, there were those that would talk. If they did, they would deal with her – or Gamling. 

Éomer didn’t move. 

“Sire?” She set the hangings on the large table, one that during war and early after had maps staked out on it. 

“Yes, Aefre?” Éomer didn’t move, did nothing to hide the fact he was crying. 

“Is anything amiss? Anything I can help with?”

He sighed deeply, his shoulders rising and then drooping. “Oh, much is amiss. I was dreading this moment. I have been dreading it for over the last seasonal cycle. I do not wish to be king, I truly do not want these rooms and I fantasized about swiving every available wench in Rohan before I settled down. “ There was an awful silence before he continued. “But I am king now. I love a beautiful woman and care not for even looking at another. And these rooms are mine. I have a perfectly good home in Aldburg, but the king’s place is here. So here I must be.” Aefre sank down next to him. “I have no idea what to do with the clothing. Most will not fit me.”

“They are not your color.” Aefre smiled sadly.

“Must I worry about that as well?”

“Lothiriel will.”

Éomer smiled, but it was a smile that held little mirth and his eyes were red-rimmed. “I found this.” He held in his lap a moderately sized carved box. “Truly, I had forgotten about it.” He gently opened the lid. “Éowyn loved to play in it when we first came and she was small. Uncle would laugh, to see her parade as a grand lady.” His tears began to flow again. “He told me before the war, that when she was younger, she made him drink the most awful swill she called ‘tea’…” His laughter came out as a harsh bark. He rubbed his lower face with the back of his sleeve. “I am sorry. I should not go on like this. ‘Tis unseemly a king should cry.”

“Tis more unseemly a beloved uncle should not be mourned.”

“Aye. You are right.” He seemed to brighten up a bit. “Gamling told me on the parapets of Minas Tirith that there was a time to grieve and a time to be king. Today, I think I will grieve and remember better days.” He tilted the casket, to show Aefre. “This was Aunt Elfhild’s jewelry box. Much of it has been handed down from queen to queen, therefore it is only right I give it to Lothiriel. But I desire something for Éowyn. A gift to remember her past and her family.”

“I think that would be a wonderful gesture, Éomer. What piece did she like best?”

He dug for a moment, the gentle clinking of jewelry the only sound in the room, before pulling out a finely worked mithril chain with a large blue waterstone in a silver setting. “This. She wore it as a belt.” He leaned over. “I doubt she could wear it as a belt anymore.” This time, his smile was truly mischievous. 

“I think it would be fine gift. Shall I set it on the mantle for you?”

He nodded, his attention returned back to the exquisitely carved coffer. “I also thought to give Lothiriel a wedding gift for our ceremony from this.” He removed a delicate crown, made of thin strands of silver, with small emeralds in the knots.

“Oh, Éomer.” Aefre set the necklace for Éowyn in her lap, and reached for the headpiece. “This is Elven – wrought! It is a treasure indeed!” 

“I thought the stones will match her eyes.” He gently ran a finger along the twisted metal, the outline of a prancing horse. “Her hair is dark, unlike ours. I thought it... would be pretty.”

“It will be lovely.” She handed him the diadem and stood up. “I will place Éowyn’s necklace on the mantle and leave you to your memories.”

“Thank you.”

She put the necklace over the fireplace, taking note of the severe cleaning it would need. Ashes rose over the mantelpiece and up the wall. No doubt, the flue needed cleaning as well. “When you are ready, ask for me and I will help you go through Théoden’s things. No doubt, some of Théoden’s most trust-worthy knights would appreciate something fine to wear.” Her eye spied bright braiding on green cloth laid carefully on the bed. “Éomer? Is that Théoden’s wedding cloak?” 

Éomer looked over his shoulder before standing up, still clutching the wooden box. “Aye, I believe it is.”

She went to the bed, her hand caressing the fine-spun wool. “It is beautiful, still. Look at the braid work. Helgarda had a hand in the making of this. She still talks about it.” Aefre rubbed the material between her thumb and forefinger. “It is uncommonly soft.” She took in the brightness still of the bright emerald fabric. “‘Tis a shame it is just to be packed away.”

Éomer stood up, rising slowly and set the casket on the bed. “’Tis a shame Helgarda and Eadignes are wasting yards of precious wool for a cloak for me, when there is a perfectly good one here.”

“Does it fit?”

A slow boyish smile lit the King’s features. He grasped the cloak and slung it about his neck, before settling it about his shoulders. “Well?”

Aefre’s lower lip began to tremble. “It is a perfect fit, my Lord. I suspect some of the braiding might need repaired or resewn, but with a good airing,” she walked around behind Éomer, “it even drags the floor just enough. I would say both you and Lothiriel would be covered just fine.”

“Then it is settled. I shall wear this one. They can use their little disasters-“ the tone was comical and it did make Aefre laugh, “- downstairs for someone who needs it.” He reverently removed the cloak. “Strange. It will be like having Uncle there.” He handed it over to Aefre.

“Aye. It will be.” She turned to leave. “I will send Willan to watch your door, make sure no one disturbs you while you shift through things.”

Éomer nodded to her, before returning to the floor and pulling Théoden’s things to him. He fingered the trim work of a sleeve. “Gamling is a lucky man. I hope I am so equally blessed.”

*** 

Dinner at Prince Imrahil’s table was, as usual, a noisy, boisterous affair. His sons still acted like teenagers; one would not believe that serious, stern Elphir who ran the Royal Stables like a very tight ship, led the family in practical jokes. Nor would anyone believe that Amrothos, who was equally respected on the wharfs by the merchants, terrified the family by routinely yanking the tablecloth from the table, leaving the dishes and food intact, most of the time. Their wives sat next to each other, discussing the layette for Elphir’s pregnant wife, fashions, the color of this room and jewelry…

…while Lothiriel sat quietly, listening in, nodding when necessary, eating slowly.

But mostly toying with the ring on her finger.

She _was_ pale. How had he missed it? It was if her mind was far, far away.

Imrahil had to stop himself from slamming his wineglass down. Of course her mind was far, far away. Her brothers had the pleasure of courting their brides at their own pace. He himself had long courted Lothiriel’s mother – she turned her nose up to him for quite sometime until the night he made an utter fool of himself, serenading her under her balcony, only to find he was serenading her parents! Her father threw his shoe at him, much to the amusement of his intended. She led him on a merry chase, one he enjoyed thoroughly.

But Lothiriel’s courtship was through missives and letters that went through many hands before they reached her. It dawned on him that through-out negotiations of the dowry, that there was always a separate scroll, sealed with the King of Rohan’s personal seal, for her. Whenever a rider with that telltale green cloak rode into Dol Amroth, she was the first to greet him, to receive that intimate letter and that she personally saw to the Rider’s comfort, before stealing away to somewhere quiet with whatever Éomer had written. She would smile for days afterwards. But eventually, the smile faded and she would toy with her ring and according to her sisters by marriage, she stared out over the White Mountains towards the plains of Rohan.

Her servants had confirmed that this afternoon. One told him she heard Lothiriel whispering in that strange ‘horse’ language, practicing, ever practicing.

She was pining. 

“Lothiriel.” The noise at the table came to an abrupt halt. He had to call her name twice before she finally looked up. “Come, bring your chair next to me. I wish to speak to you and not yell over your brothers across the table.”

She stood up, Elphir taking her chair and carrying it for her while she maneuvered her skirts and her glass to her father’s side. “Yes, Ada?”

When she looked at him fully, he saw her mother, her nose, her eyes. Ah, Ilúvatar, how he missed her. How he would miss this daughter of theirs. He looked down at her hands and saw her twisting the ring again. He reached over, taking her hands into his. He looked closely at the ring on her finger; this gift from the King of Rohan, took in the fine craftsmanship. He covered his hands with his. “You will wear the insignia off if you continue to worry it.”

“You have been speaking to Lataie.”

“I am not unobservant.” He inhaled deeply. This would be so hard, to give this one up. He thought for so long she would always be close by; her children would play here in the palace by the ocean. Instead, they would be far away and one would be a king. In his own time… “Do you love him?”

“Father?”

“Do you love him?” He squeezed her hand gently. “I would not force you to marry someone just because he is a king or because you spent too much unsupervised time in his company in a barn.” He raised a finger to hush his children. “I do not care about contracts or promises or even the King of Gondor. I will not have anyone say I forced any of my children into a political match. I want to know to know if you love him.”

Lothiriel regarded him for a few moments that seemed like a long time. “I had a dream some years back about my future husband. He was tall and fair and eyes like the sky. The first time I saw Éomer was in the Healing Houses of Minas Tirith. I had no idea he was king, simply was in awe how he sat over his sister. He was the man I dreamed of. Yes. I love him, very much.”

“Your courtship has not been normal.”

“It had no chance of being normal. I knew that when he told me he intended to ask for my hand. Yes Father. I do love him.”

Imrahil set her hand back in her lap. “So be it. I have heard rumors that in several days, ships are coming that are loaded with silk and other lovely materials. I think it would be appropriate if you went with your brother to see if there is anything on them to your liking. “

“Ada, the contracts-“

“- are all but signed. The only thing to decide is the actual date and time and truth be told I would not put it past Éomer to show up in the spring and demand you marry him as soon as the bells are to be rung to announce it. At least if I were in Éomer’s shoes, I would demand it immediately. We men do not understand dressmakers and preparations all that goes into the wedding.”

“I just wore what Daien told me to wear and showed up when she told me to.” Elphir sunk his nose back into his wineglass and shrugged. “It was easier.”

Lothiriel whispered, “Are you sure? Éomer can seem impetuous.” 

“I care only for your happiness. I would not have the King of Rohan accuse me of allowing you to waste away. I would rather you take his breath away. Go buy and have made what you need.”

Lothiriel sat straight up. “You are giving me permission to go shopping?”

“Yes.”

“I will need many dresses.”

“That was inevitable.”

“It will be a royal wedding. I will have to outshine Queen Arwen.”

Imrahil’s heart clutched, whether it was the pain of the foreseeable knowledge of her leaving or the dent she was about to put in his purse, he did not know.

“I will need leggings and tunics as well.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What?”

“LOTHIRIEL!” Daien was scandalized. “You cannot think-“

“I am marrying a horselord. And not any horselord, but the King of the Horselords! I will be expected to ride. A lot!” She looked at her family with mock scorn. “And not side-saddle! Surely, you have seen me in Elphir’s old leggings and shirts riding out in the countryside on Nihtwinde with Hæfern when he has trained me in Rohirrim – style riding!”

“My daughter,” Imrahil was now putting his nose in the glass and drained it, “you are scandalous and making my heart stop. But yes you have, yes you are and yes you must.” He stood up. “I leave you to your shenanigans while I go unbury my meager gold from beneath the foundations in their small glass jars. You are going to put me in the poor house.”

Imrahil was smiling as he left. Lothiriel wouldn’t put him completely in the poor house, but no one would think she went into her marriage as a beggar. 

_tbc_

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v152/ZeeDippyVessel/Fic%20Artwork/?action=view&current=04.jpg)

 

guardian at night nihtweard m Nihtweard   
crab Hæfern


	6. 05 - Ghost Riders in the Snow

__

# LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

__

##  Chapter 05 

__

### Ghost Riders in the Snow 

“My Lord,” the clerk entered Imrahil’s study, his arms piled unusually high with scrolls and missives. “Considering how fast they are coming in, I thought you would perhaps like to get a jump start on the bills for this period.”

Imrahil was relaxed back in his chair, but upon seeing the pile in the clerk’s arms, he jumped up, getting to him just in time to catch a falling missive. Out of curiosity, he unscrolled the one he caught and was taken aback at the figure at the bottom which was revealed first. He continued to unroll before sighing.

“I did tell her to go shopping…”

*** 

Haleth never knew exhaustion could be so thorough. All he could see before him was white. Snow, snow, and more snow. He was frightened he would miss an inn or a barn by inches and there was a storm coming behind him that he feared would leave him stranded for days in a shelter.

He did not wish to consider what would happen if it came upon him out in the open.

Just as the wind was beginning to pick up, he saw the walls of a small village in the distance. He wrapped his cloak tighter about him and nudged Níðheard into a slow trot, his mind simply on getting somewhere warm. 

The gate watcher let him in quickly enough, with whispered directions to the only stable and inn. Something about him made Haleth shiver and not from the cold, and for a moment, he wished he had continued on and found an outlying farm.

He stabled his horse in the lean-to the village appeared to call a stable. There was no groomsman or servant working in it so Haleth rubbed him down and found some stale oats for his mount. He considered leaving him saddled and bunking down with his horse, but decided against it. The stable was ramshackle and the walls and roof were missing boards, allowing little warmth and meager shelter. He was cold and hungry and surely, his messenger mark would protect him. Still, he made sure his saddlebags and saddle were close by in the stall, just in case.

He pushed the door open to the inn and was assaulted by the smoke and smell of unwashed bodies. 

“Shut the damn door, fekking idiot!” The voice had too many drinks and too much smoked tabac in it and Haleth slammed the door, almost getting his cloak caught in it. He pulled it to the side just in time, more terrified he would damage the precious loan than of the crudity being shouted at him. He turned to face the suddenly silent crowd.

The light was dim, too dim, and what little could be seen was obscured by a mist of dust and tabac-smoke. Haleth squashed the urge to lift his cloak, so it wouldn’t drag on the filthy floor. Yet again, he felt a strong desire to return to his horse and bed down near him.

“Why, look what we have here!” A woman not wearing enough clothes came from around the bar. She was falling out of her top and wearing enough paint on her face to whitewash a long fence. Her lips were painted blood red and she had a feral smile. “I have not seen one this fresh or young in a while!” 

“You have not seen one this young since you were a babe in swaddling yerself!” a voice from the back howled, everyone in the room seeming to join in the crude laughter.

Haleth’s eyes were wide and after forever, he found his voice. “I am on the Kings business. I need food and a place to rest.”

“Boy.” The bartender behind the bar was using an unkempt rag to dry glasses. He himself looked as if he had not bathed in four seasons. “Do you have coin for the food and rest?”

“I will pay his way,” the barmaid’s smile was predatory. “I am sure he and I can come to a mutual agreement for repayment.” Several men laughed at her obvious intent.

“I have this.” Haleth struggled to pull his messenger mark from under his jerkin. “Tis the King’s mark and I am to be allowed passage and safety.”

The barmaid hissed and the bartender put down his rag. “Give me that. Let me see.”

Haleth shook his head and began to tuck it back into his jerkin. The atmosphere in the room was turning quite tense. 

“I said-”

“Leave him be.” A faintly familiar voice in the back spoke up and a man stood. Haleth squinted in the din, but could not make out a face. “He carries the King of Rohan’s mark. He’s being tracked and if something should happen to him, he will be hunted.” The thuds of the man’s footfalls echoed dully through out the room. “It will not go well for anyone if he comes to harm.”

“I did not see it.” The bartender returned to his rag.

“I did,” the man jeered. “Do you doubt me? Call me liar?”

For a moment, the bartender glared at the man before returning to the job of polishing not very clean glasses. He spit on a spot and continued rubbing. “Nay. If you say it, I shall believe it.”

The man clamped his hand on Haleth’s shoulder and shoved him towards the rickety staircase. “Up boy. You have nothing to fear from me.” The two went up the stairs and as they reached the landing, the noise in the lower room began anew. Haleth allowed the man to direct him to a room at the back of hall.

It was unkempt, like the rest of the place, but the linens were relatively clean. “Sit.” Haleth immediately sat down in a dilapidated chair and looked at his unlikely benefactor.

The man stood before the window; its glass had not seen a human hand in sometime. Still the sun’s meager haze glared through, distorting his features still. “I would bid you run, but the storm will be upon us too soon.”

“Where would you bid me run?”

The man’s snort was derisive. “Any where from here. They do not call this place Witnung without reason.”

Haleth gasped. “Witnung is a fairy tale; a story to-“

“Scare small children. Yes, I know. I have told it myself many times to a young boy with wild dreams.” He turned from the window, his back to the boy. He poured water from a pitcher and set it next to the table. “A place where evil dwells and takes its victims as it wills and chooses. It exists.” He went to the door. “The water is stale and lukewarm, but drinkable. Lock the door behind me and let no one in save me. I will bring you food. There is a chamber pot in the corner. Use it if necessary.”

The man was gone for a long time and Haleth climbed into the bed and fell asleep. It was not comfortable, but his body didn’t care. He needed rest. When he awoke, it was dark; the snow and wind howling outside the windowpanes. A single, short candle lit the room and there was a fire in the fireplace. The noise from the common room below rose through the floorboards; it sounded as if a horrific fight were taking place below. A bowl with a watery gruel and some old bread sat on the table and Haleth inhaled both as only a starving growing teen could eat. He didn’t taste it and in the back of his mind, he was glad he couldn’t. He used the chamber pot, missing the comforts of Edoras, even the garrison in the Wold, where the men good-naturedly joked about ‘roughing it’ while sitting around a fire, eating food that was nourishing, tasty and prepared with love. He crawled back into bed, wrapped in his cloak and the thin blanket from the bed.

When he awoke again, it was still dark, save the glowing embers from the fireplace and the small light from the pipe the man was smoking. The smell of the tabac was comforting, familiar. Again, his back was to Haleth and he stared out of the window into the storm. “Why would the King of Rohan send such a young Rider on a mission in the dead of winter?”

“It is an important missive for his sister.”

“Hmm.” He drew in on his pipe, the flame burning bright. For a moment, Haleth saw the outline of his face and it drew him up short.

“What could be so dire to tell the White Lady that it could not wait until spring?” The man seemed to ponder for a moment.

“The king did not send me. His Marshal, Gamling, sent me.”

The man was humming, off-key and mostly to himself, more intent on the storm outside the window. “It must be important if Gamling would send you. The Marshal is in charge of your Rider training?”

“Aye. He and his lady wife took me in after my da was killed and I returned from Helm’s Deep.”

“Lady wife?” There was amusement in the man’s voice. “I have known Gamling for some time. I never thought he would settle down with a wife and child.” It was quiet for a time. “I am happy for him.”

“You know Marshal Gamling?”

“Many years.” The wind blew hard, flinging snow against the window. The man stood there, stalwart regardless, as if to defy the winter’s rage. “I wondered why I was sent here. Now, I know.”

Haleth must have fallen asleep again, for next he knew, the rising of the dawn was barely visible on the edge of the mountain. There was more bread on the table, still warm and scenting the room, as well as an unopened bottle of what appeared to be whiskey. The man was now in the corner, in the shadows. There was no sound coming from the common room downstairs and the howling of the wind and snow had lessened to almost a whisper.

“Listen to me carefully, Haleth. The moment the sun rises, leave quietly as not to arouse anything or anyone. Saddle your horse and go. There is a lull in the storm and you must take advantage, as you will not have much time. I have protected you this night; I have no desire to test my skills in protecting you another, as I am not sure I can. Do not stop at any farmer’s croft until the sun sets. Ride as hard as you can, for they do not give up easily and might give chase.” He stood up and leaned over, clapping him on the shoulder. “Gamling is a good man. He will teach you well. Ride hard. Make your father proud.” He turned to leave, his footfalls silent on the floors.

For the short moment he leaned over Haleth, the boy had a good look at the man’s face. He gasped as the man walked away towards the door. “Da!”

Háma turned, dust flowing through him, the wooden outline of the door behind him clearly visible. A ghostly smile touched his lips. “Béma watches over you and so do I. Be careful to whom you speak of this night. Guard the memory in your heart. Ride like the wind, Haleth. Run from this place and do not look back.”

In a blink, the door opened and closed, too silent to be believed. Haleth jumped from the bed, tossing off the blanket and ran to the door, throwing it open.

There was no one in the hall, no one down in the common room.

The words of his father lingered in his mind and he hurried back to the room, grabbing the bread, whiskey and his cloak. He tiptoed down the hall, praying to see a glimpse of the man, however seeing nothing but dust and left-over smoke lingering in the air. The only footprints on the floor were his. The bartender’s well-used rag was lying haphazardly on the bar and Haleth was careful to make no sound as he left.

True to what he had been told, there was a lull in the storm and he hurried to the barn, where he found his horse ready to go, ready to leave. He quickly saddled the stallion and attached his saddlebags and bedroll, making sure to eat some of the bread before taking a small swig of the whiskey and putting both away. He made sure his sword and knife were secured before pulling up on his horse and making his way out.

It was a ghost town, no one stirring and the front gate haphazardly lay open, the top hinge splintered from its moorings and snowdrifts all around. As he passed the inn, he looked up towards the room he had spent the night in and swore he saw the ghost of his father. Haleth made his way out, circled to the south and then took off, giving his stead his head. 

He rode all day, taking no rest, but replaying the entire evening in his head. Tears came and he let them fall, many freezing on his cheeks. He passed several homesteads, all of them looking as dismal as the town. Close to sunset, he found a farm, the home sturdy and kept up with repairs; the barn in good shape and well cared for. The farmer welcomed him, his wife stuffing him full of hot stew and giving him a warm place to sleep by their fire. 

That night, the storm raged and to Haleth, it seemed he could hear things in the night, slamming against the walls and screaming his name.

The next morning, the farmer’s wife fed him again; eggs and bacon and hot caffe, as well as giving him a large tied scarf filled with lunch. The farmer gave him an extra blanket, with the request if he came back that way, to return it then. He walked him to the barn, helped him saddle his horse before telling him, “Not many survive a night in Witnung. You are blessed indeed.” He slapped the horse on the rear flank, sending Haleth on his way.

***  
tbc  
***

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v152/ZeeDippyVessel/Fic%20Artwork/?action=view&current=05.jpg)

 

Wítnung - Purgatory

Lýðrest - sweet  
Níðheard – Brave in Battle


	7. 06 - Be Prepared

__

# LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

__

## Chapter 06 

__

###  Be prepared 

Haleth reached the rise.

He stopped; he had to. It was wondrous, amazing. Slowly, he dismounted, just to look, just for a moment to take it in. He held his stallion’s reins loosely in his hand.

Minas Tirith lay across the snow-covered field, rising like a pristine dais for Ilúvatar. Even from this distance, he could see all seven levels clearly. It was like a jewel, rising from the earth.

Earth stained with the blood of many Rohirrim. He sank to his knees, taking it in. Somewhere down there, his uncle died, his cousin... his king… Haleth clung to the last memories of Théoden King with a vengeance. For so much of his life, he had been infirm, under the poison of Wormtongue. Not until the last few weeks of his life, until he…

Died. Swept away and crushed by his own horse. Somewhere down in the ice covered sea of grass was a plaque for Snowmane, where they buried him, when they retrieved Théoden’s body. According to the whispers of some, the Lady Aefre had planted mint and rosemary and simbelmynë, in effort to obscure the wretched epitaph the Gondorians had written on the grave, to always remind them, Rohirrim had died here.

Haleth bowed his head for a moment, before looking up again to see a white ocean, topped with Ilúvatar’s Throne. It was a splendid, breath-taking sight.

Suddenly, he missed Rohan. Missed Meduseld, missed its people. He missed Gamling and Aefre, especially little Léoma and how she pulled his hair. He missed the Wold. These people, Gondor, friend of Rohan would be grand, have airs…

… would be different from Rohan. He had not thought about it, what he would do or think when he arrived. He had concentrated on putting as many leagues between himself and Witnung as he could achieve. What if he was sent home immediately? Could he return a different way?

Níðheard was pawing the ground impatiently, smoke from the cold air rising from his nostrils. The journey was near over and the stallion was anxious for a warm stall and honeyed oats. What if Éowyn was not here? What if he had to journey farther? What if they would not let him in the gate?

Haleth shook his head in ire. _‘I am Rohirrim. I will do, as I was bid and go where I was told. I will make my father proud.’_ He remounted, yanking his gloves tighter and tucking his cloak about him. He took the reins before clicking his tongue in signal to begin his descent. Once at the bottom, he put his heels to his stallion’s flanks, and gave Níðheard his head.

And that is what the guards of gate saw a short time later. A smoke-breathing stallion racing over the plain like rolling thunder, churning up snow with a green streaming caped Rider hunched low over his back, bearing down on them as if the very demons of Morgoth were chasing them down.

*** 

Lothiriel and several of her ladies – including her two sister-in-laws, came into the palace, arms laden. “Father will kill me,” she admitted to Lataie, Amrothos’s wife. “I have spent so much money. I feel guilty.” 

Lataie giggled. “Don’t! By the Valar, you’ll have precious little to spend when you marry the King of Rohan!” 

“Not only that,” Daien whispered, “you are not normally a spendthrift! This is for your trousseau! Your wedding clothes! Father Imrahil will not deny you that!” She set her boxes down. “My husband, on the other hand, might lock me away on our apartments for a year when he gets the receipts from my purchases!” 

“Borrow some of the black silk that Lotti bought so much of,” Lataie whispered behind her hand. “Have the seamstresses create something slinky and easy to tear off and he will forgive you fast enough!” 

Daien put both fists on her waist, her very expectant stomach protruding. “And what do you suspect caused this? Elphir can’t get near me!” she grumbled. “This baby still has another moon to grow!”

The women laughed in agreement Lothiriel nodded her head in tandem. “It will take forever to get all this to my rooms and then tomorrow, I will have to secure the dressmakers to get started. Oh, the work to be done.” 

Grumbling could be heard coming down the upper hallway. Lothiriel’s maidservant, Thelielveril rushed down the stairs. “Ooh missy. I will have the servants take these to your rooms immediately. I’ve already contacted the dressmaker and she’ll be here tomorrow before noon. Oh, I cannot wait to see what you’ve bought. You will be such a beautiful bride. That barbarian king will not take his eyes off you!” She clapped her hands, causing servants to come from nowhere. In a flash, the boxes and packages – including those Lothiriel and her sister-in-laws were carrying – were whisked away, up the stairs and to Lothiriel’s rooms. “I have sent for a light repast to be sent to your rooms. My lady,” she paused and dropped her voice, “however there is a messenger from Rohan. It is most strange.”

Lothiriel’s heart leapt. “Strange? What is strange?” Warnings from her father, her servants, warning of bad luck if she proceeded with her wedding gown before the date was set, rose in her mind. “Is something wrong?” Lataie and Daien stopped and returned to Lothiriel’s side.

“If that man has changed his mind, I will tear him apart! King or no King!” 

“What are you going to do? Sit on him?” 

Lothiriel blocked out her brothers wives. “What is strange?”

Thelielveril realized she had more of an audience than she anticipated. “He refuses to speak to anyone. He doesn’t have a message or a missive. He does carry the King of Rohan’s messenger mark.” She paused for a moment. “He simply insists on speaking to you.” She leaned over, whispering. “His use of the Common Tongue is almost as atrocious as Hæfern’s!” 

“Where is he?”

Servants were no longer bustling about. They were now walking at a snails pace, listening in. Obviously this messenger had been here a while and all were talking about it.

“He is in your father’s receiving chamber. He is vile filthy, as if he’s been on the road for weeks and refuses food or quarters to clean up. Hæfern took his horse to the stable and tried to speak with him, but this one has not budged.”

Lothiriel had gone around her maidservant and headed towards the royal receiving room. “There is no need for an audience. I will handle this.”

“Not on your life!” Lataie spoke up. “If it is bad news, you will need us.”

“I keep missing their messengers.” Daien was waddling. “I want to see one up close! Elphir seems to think I’ll run off with one.” She elbowed Lataie. “Are they really good looking?”

Daien fanned her face. ‘Gorgeous,’ she mouthed. 

Lothiriel was through the doors and spotted a young Rohirrim standing to one side. True to Thelielveril’s words, he was filthy, wind-blown, his distinctive helmet tucked under one arm. His cheeks were still red and wind-raw from his ride and he looked exhausted. Lothiriel was stunned at his youth; he looked to be not even twenty harvests. “Are you alone?” she blurted. “What is your name? What news of the Riddermark?” 

He turned to her. “Princess Lothiriel.” His words were slow and measured. Thelielveril was most correct. Westron did not come easily to this one. “I must speak to Princess Lothiriel.”

Her father appeared at her side. “He has refused food or drink until he spoke to you. He has been rather insistent.” He leaned to whisper. “He carries Éomer’s personal mark. He arrived soon after you left. I imagine he is starving.” He took her by the hand and led her up the dais.

“Princess Lothiriel?” 

“I am she.”

The young Rider went immediately to one knee, his helmet making a solid ‘thunk’ as he placed it on the floor and his head bent low. “Éomer Cyning néalǽcan. Gearu!” It came out in a rush, in Rohirrim. 

“What did he say?”

Lothiriel blocked out her family and their chatter, attempting to translate. “Hwæt lá! Æfter … Æftercwe… Æftercweða… Æftercweða! Oh drat, this language is so difficult when I’m in a hurry! What? Again! Níwan stefne!”

The young man looked up, determination shining in deep blue eyes. His admiration at her attempt of Rohirrim was obvious. He repeated slowly, “Éomer Cyning néalǽcan tó æftersprecan céapian. Gearu!”

Lothiriel thought for a moment, the translation slow for a moment. “I see.” She smiled and bent over, touching him under his chin. “Ástandan. Habban þú ǽtan?”

“Does he have a name?” Elphir had arrived and was hovering at his wife’s elbow.

“Abéodan.” Apparently, the Rider did have a name and he spoke it clearly. He spoke very slowly, but plainly. He was still bowed on one knee, one hand on his knee, the other spread, as if to press his helmet through the floor. “I have not eaten. My orders were to first speak to you.” His eyes never left Lothiriel.

“Well, Abéodan, I will make sure a fine meal is prepared for you in the kitchens and that you have a warm and safe place to sleep tonight. Thank you. Ástandan. Please rise.”

“But what did he say???” Elphir’s wife was rather excited.

“I said,” Abéodan rose, dwarfing all in the room, “Éomer King comes to claim his bride. Be prepared.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v152/ZeeDippyVessel/Fic%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Lothiriel.jpg)

***   
tbc

*** 

Éomer Cyning néalǽcan tó æftersprecan céapian. Gearu

Éomer King comes to claim his bride. Be ready.

hwæt lá! What? 

Æftercweða Repeat? 

níwan stefne Again

Habban þú ǽtan Have you eaten?

Ástandan Rise


	8. 07 - How to make the Queen laugh

_****_

# LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

_****_

## Chapter 07

 _****_

### How to make the Queen laugh. 

The clerk entered for the third time that morning, arms laden with bills. “My Lord…”

“What this time?”

“Flowers. Jewelers...”

Imrahil simply cleared his desk.

*** 

Elessar stared down from his high throne at the boy before him. “Who did he say he was?” In his hand, he held the messenger mark of the King of Rohan that the boy was carrying.

The middle-aged captain stood one step down and leaned closer. “He arrived at the gate, claiming to be from Rohan and asking for The White Lady and Prince Faramir.” He leaned closer. “Truth be, he looks like one of them, but he is much too young to carry one of these,” he nodded to the mark, “or to be wearing a Rider’s cloak on his shoulders. ‘Tis my understanding, they are not given lightly. He stormed across Pelennor Fields with such a fury, one of the guards pissed his leggings. He said it were as if demons chased the boy.” He looked down at Haleth, as if measuring him. “I cannot imagine why the King of Rohan would send one so small, so far, in the dead of winter. The poor thing is half-frozen.”

At the word ‘small,’ Haleth’s head jerked up, steel darkening the blue eyes. Elessar leaned forward, a long ago memory springing forward. “I believe the King’s messenger has taken offense of you calling him ‘small.’ You are,” Elessar now addressed the boy, “Haleth, son of Háma. I remember you-” 

_‘Let me see your sword’… the Ranger cut the evening with the weapon, causing the air to swish and rent. ‘This is a good sword…’_

“-You fought bravely at Helm’s Deep.” 

The boy nodded. “You honor me. I remember well the courage of the Ranger and now King of Gondor and how you aided my people in our hour of need.” For a swift second, his fist came to his chest, a salute.

Elessar leaned back to his captain. “Have you sent for Éowyn?” The man nodded. “Good. He is who he says he is. See his horse is well cared for and that there is a meal prepared for him in the kitchen. I suspect Faramir will house him with his men, but in case, prepare a bunk for him with the cavalry. He will be comforted by the nearness of the horses.” He motioned for the boy to approach. “This,” he nodded to his right, “is my wife and Queen, Arwen.”

Haleth gave his lowest bow. “I remember when your bridal party came through Edoras.” He paused. “I thought you the most beautiful creature I had ever seen,” he blurted. He blushed furiously. “Forgive me.”

“Wait until you see her angry.” The King of Gondor was in a good mood this afternoon and he winked at his wife.

“I will not!” Arwen smiled. “Females love to be told they are beautiful. You are growing to be a gracious young man.” She smacked at the back of her husband’s hand, resting so close to hers. “Do not listen to the king.” She reached and took the mark from her husband, turning it slowly in her hand, her fingers caressing the engraving. “What news of the Riddermark?”

“Is Lady Éowyn here? I would like to speak to her.”

“He is persistent.” 

Arwen nodded. “They are a stalwart people, wise and wonderful in their way. Steadfast and honorable.” She looked down at the boy. “Is there a worry or a danger? Does Éomer King need our help?”

Haleth’s jaw flapped twice, the urge to blabber his message right there on the dais. He was saved by the sound of the doors opening and running feet. “They said there was a messenger from Rohan.” Éowyn ran in, hair flying. She saw the very young rider in a slightly too large cloak standing on the lower steps. “Haleth? Is something amiss?”

Haleth jumped down the steps, to reach her faster. The hissing of Rohirric consonants was not quite audible and Arwen sat up straight, her grin widening. “Oh my…” she whispered.

“What?”

“Shhh! I’m listening.”

“WHAT? HE IS DOING WHAT???” Éowyn threw her hands on her hips. “WHEN? Has he left yet?” Haleth was trying to continue, whispering in a rush. “Oh stop, Haleth! Have you eaten?” He shook his head. Éowyn looked up at the King, who pointed innocently towards the nearest footman. She turned the young teen and shoved him towards the uniformed man. “Please, take him to the kitchens for some food. Then return him right back here. I will take you to our home and find you a bed. Your horse?”

“Is resting comfortably in the royal stables.” 

Haleth stopped and turned. “Might I go see him before dark? He will be confused and wonder where I am,” he stumbled, “it being a strange place and all.”

“Tell the cook I said to give you a treat for your horse.” Haleth nodded to the King, before following the footman through the doorway.

Éowyn was pacing and cursing in Rohirric. “That man! OH! Béma preserve us, he is so dead! I cannot believe it! Of all the fool-hardy, stupid, hard-headed…”

“Excuse me.” Éowyn jumped, as Elessar’s hand weighed heavily on her shoulder. “Is something amiss?” He looked up at the dais, where Arwen was now covering her face, in attempt to hide her mirth.

Faramir chose this moment to run into the throne room. “Éowyn! I was told a messenger had arrived from Rohan. It is the middle of winter. Is something wrong? Why did Éomer simply not light the beacon lights?” 

Arwen burst out laughing.

“Oh, aye, a messenger arrived. Too young for his first ride so far in such foul weather!” Éowyn spat. 

Faramir had the decency to look puzzled. “I have known Éomer for but a short time, however he appears to be level-headed -” Arwen screamed with laughter and threw her head back, howling at the buttresses, “and… am I missing something? Why would Éomer send a young one so far in this weather?”

“But that is just it!” Éowyn spat. “Éomer did not send him! His Marshal and Lady sent him!” Arwen was now bent over, laughing at the tiles between her slippers. “All the worse, I rather doubt Éomer knows he is here! I am just going to kill him!” 

Faramir tried to placate his wife. “I do not think killing Éomer is justifiable-”

“I killed the Witch King; believe me, I am quite capable of killing my brother!”

“And she never lets me forget it,” Faramir whispered to the ceiling. “At least, the hobbit went home.”

“I can go home!” Éowyn spat. “If Haleth can ride to here in the snow, I can return!” She nodded smugly to herself. “I can rush right to Meduseld right this moment and kill that idiot. I think that’s what I will do.” She smiled up at the King of Gondor. “Sire? Might I borrow your sword?” 

“No!” Elessar moved to protect the sword that was not hanging at his side. “Lady Éowyn, is the King of Rohan no longer our friend?” 

“Lady Éowyn,” Arwen materialized next to her husband, finally in control of herself. “Why do you not go to the kitchens and join your young Rider. After such a long ride, he will be needy of a friendly face from home, one who speaks his language and praises him for a job well done. After he has finished eating and seen to his horse, Faramir can settle him with his archers, while you and I decide how to handle this. We will go shopping tomorrow.”

“Shopping, oh no, shopping,” Faramir was again addressing the ceiling. “It must be bad.”

Éowyn dipped a curtsey and proceeded to the same door Haleth had gone through minutes earlier. “Oh, I do not know if shopping can fix this!”

Both Faramir and Elessar winced.

Arwen waited until the door had closed before giggling, “Apparently, Éomer has cabin fever and tires of waiting to marry his Princess.” Both Elessar and Faramir nodded in commiseration. “So he has decided to go get her. I believe Haleth’s words were ‘contracts be damned.’ His Marshal, Gamling, and Gamling’s wife, the Lady Aefre, are trying to delay him best as they possibly can and have sent two Riders, one here to Éowyn and one to Dol Amroth, to Princess Lothiriel. It is their hope to detain him until the last true snowfall.”

“That could be problematic if Prince Imrahil is not properly warned or prepared.”

“I hope the messenger sent to Lothiriel is older and a bit more worldly than our young Rohirrim.”

“Speaking of,” Elessar offered up, “I have made arrangements to bunk him with the cavalry, unless you have other plans?”

“Thank you, but I will put him with my archers this evening, unless Éowyn wants to keep him close this evening, which she probably will. They are close to the barns and he will be comfortable. I have an archer who will take him under his wing, teach him a few things, and I am sure even at his young age, he could show your cavalry a thing or two. We will keep him busy until Éowyn and I leave for Dol Amroth.”

“Until _you_ leave for Dol Amroth?” Arwen queried. “Éowyn and I will be shopping for wedding clothes for all of us.” 

“But-“

“I agree with my beloved. We would not miss this for anything in the world.”


	9. 08 - Spring hath sprung a leak in my leaky widgets

****

#  LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

****

##  Chapter 08 

****

###  Spring hath sprung a leak in my leaky widgets. 

“Great Ilúvatar!” Imrahil scanned the bill from the dressmaker. “What is in the material of this gown?”

The clerk shrugged. “Mithril?” 

*** 

There were trunks lined up in the courtyard of Edoras. Éomer strode among them like a man seeing a three-headed dog. “What is all this?”

Gamling followed behind, munching contentedly on an aging apple. “Probably my lady-wife’s luggage. Better get used to it.”

“USED TO IT? Why should I get used to your wife’s need to bring everything but the kitchen washtub anytime she travels?”

“Éomer, King!” Both men jumped as Beornia came around the corner. “What a ridiculous statement to make! The kitchen washtub indeed! Besides, this is just the beginning. There are cooking utensils and cook stoves and servants and bedding…” she disappeared into Meduseld, the door swinging shut behind her with a bang.

“SERVANTS??? TENTS???? We will be until the next year’s harvest getting to Dol Amroth!”

“Sire!” Aefre came from the door that Beornia had just gone through. “This is not a muster or a battle éored! You are going to retrieve your bride! Your éoreds wives and in many cases, families are attending. And then we will be returning with your bride and, I suspect, any servants she decides to retain! Surely you do not wish for her to sleep on the ground like one of your riders?” She strode through rows of baskets, counting and making note. “Béma on his great Steed! Men have no business or brain in their heads when it comes to such things.” Her voice trailed off as she went down the stairs. “They think all they have to do is show up bathed and their hair braided…” 

Gamling continued to crunch his apple, completely nonplussed by the entire exchange.

“Gamling!”

Gamling looked up, teeth still sunk to the core of the fruit. “Hmmm?”

Éomer stood, arms akimbo. “Are you not going to say anything?”

Gamling finished his bite before looking to the left and then right, looking to see if an orc or – worse - another woman would creep into the courtyard. Seeing none, he looked back at the king, as if addressing his own wife. “Why?”

“Why? WHY?” Éomer was completely red in the face and even the guards at the doors were watching behind covert eyes. “She’s YOUR wife! Put your foot down! Tell her to come back and take this...this…” he gestured to the crates, “ this… stuff back into the Great Hall and put it away!” Éomer stepped toe to toe with his elder Marshal and put his fist to his chest. “Be the Rider!” 

Gamling exhaled before tossing the apple core to the side and off into the dirt. “Sire, I would follow you into battle and die for Rohan in your service, but…” he clicked his tongue and rubbed his sternum where the King had thumped him, “I would like to continue sleeping in her bed and have no desire to spend the rest of my married life sleeping with Dréogan.” 

There was a bang as Eadignes and Willan came through the Great Hall doors, Eadignes chattering up a blue streak. “… need to prepare the horses and all saddle bags; of course Lady Aefre has-“

“Eadignes! Willan!” Éomer’s grin was ear to ear and he spread his hands as if welcoming long, lost friends. “Just who we need!” He gestured to the trunks. “It has been decided these are unnecessary and should be returned to the hall. If you could take them in and see they are put away, I will personally oversee your wedding!”

Willan rolled his eyes. Eadignes’s jaw dropped. 

“Wedding? What wedding? Willan has yet to ask for my hand! Are you sure these are the trunks to go back? Aefre has said nothing to me.” Eadignes stormed down the stairs, seeming to follow Aefre’s path.

Willan was glaring. The giant mute brought up both fists to his chest and bounced them, aiming the gesture to Gamling.

 _*Take him for a ride! NOW!*_ He followed Eadignes, whose voice was still drifting up the stairs.

Gamling smiled gamely. “Sire, why do we not go for a ride?” He took him gently by the arm, like a small child and led him down the stairs that, what seemed like so long ago, Grima had been kicked down. 

“I do not want to go for a ride! I want to see Lothiriel!” Éomer’s pout was petulant and most spectacular. He yanked his arm from Gamling’s gentle grasp. “The snow melted three days ago! It is warm,” he pulled his cloak about him, “almost! And look!” he pointed to crowds of people with farming utensils milling about the gates, “They are readying the fields to plant! We will have food this harvest! Are you not excited to return to the Wold and begin planting and finishing your home?”

Truth be told, Gamling wanted nothing better than to return to the Wold. He enjoyed the peace, knowing every person and each one’s job and ability. He looked forward to finishing the hall, filling the barns with Rohirrim horses and livestock. But most of all, he looked forward to watching Léoma grow and if Béma so pleased, experience Aefre growing large with his child perhaps one more time and then growing old with her.

“We need to discuss the spring robins and the honey bees.”

“I _know_ about them already, Gamling!” Éomer growled. “I am not totally ignorant of the marriage bed!”

“Ah but,” Gamling got behind the king and gently pushed him forward, down the stairs and towards the stable, “you know nothing of marriage. You need to learn how to maintain a happy garden.”

For sometime, Éomer could be heard grumbling all the way to the stables, but eventually he and Gamling made their way through the gates on their horses and everyone sighed with relief.

When the coast was clear, Beornia met with Aefre, Eadignes and Willan in the courtyard. “Well,” Aefre breath came out in a whoosh, “most things are ready. I have gone through these and I have completed the inventory. They can be returned to the storeroom.” She opened one and looked down into the neat stacks of cutlery. “Did he honestly think we were taking Meduseld’s entire household inventory with us?”

“He is becoming a good king,” Beornia started, “but when it comes to running a household, he is most clueless. I do hope his princess has been trained in running a hall.” She motioned to the guards at the door. “You! Take these inside! I will get the servants to return these to the storerooms. Do not roll your eyes at me! I have you on latrine duty in the blink of an eye!” Both guards jumped at the threat and ran to carry the trunks into the Great Hall, calling for the servants to put them where they needed to go.

“So what is the schedule, Aefre?”

“We leave in five days for Dunharrow. The Marshals and their households along with their highest captains and personal éoreds will join us there. Gamling hopes to leave within a day of there, but I would not be surprised if it is another three days. Tents are being sent now, but for the most part, we will camp if there are no settlements in the evening to rest in. As we are going through the Dwimorberg, we will either follow the River Morthond to Edhellon where we can cross into Dol Amroth or we will take Tarlang’s Neck into Lamedon. We plan to travel there light as possible.”

Eadignes shivered. “You could not pay me enough to purchase my own holding to go through the Dwimorberg. All those ghosts.” The women were now headed back into the hall.

“The ghosts are gone, Eadignes. Our messengers have used the Dwimorberg many times now, with nary a boo!” Both she and Beornia laughed, but Eadignes kept her own counsel.

*** 

“I do not understand!” Éomer was so agitated, he wasn’t riding; rather he was leading Firefoot, while he paced in large, loping circles. Gamling sat on his horse; both he and Dréogan watching the king wear himself out. “Why do we have to pack everything? Why must we take tents and household goods? Béma! That means we’ll have wagons – a huge wagon cavalry that will be slower than… slower than…”

“Hard squats with piles?”

Éomer stopped and hung his head. “Gamling. That is simply disgusting.”

“Just trying to help.”

The king continued his rambling pacing, Firefoot simply following his rider. “If we take wagons and supply carts, we cannot get through the Dwimorberg.” He stopped and slapped himself in the head. “Morgoth’s Chains! I forgot! We will have young riders, wives, they will make us go all the way around the White Mountains and Gondor.” He hung his head in sorrow. “They will want to sight-see and visit Pelennor Fields and Minas Tirith and Osgiliath! The women will want to shop in the markets of Minas Tirith! I am never getting married.” Éomer climbed back on his horse, a more dejected man, Gamling had never seen. 

“Are you quite through whining?”

“Maybe.” Éomer was tight-lipped. “Maybe not.”

Gamling reached the end of his rope. Since he would most likely be hung if he accidentally killed the king while throttling him, he decided on a safer, if not so satisfying approach. He trotted ahead of Firefoot and turned Dréogan around sharply so that he was face to face with the young king. “Éomer! You are my king and my friend. I would die at your command and would ask that you would only allow me to say goodbye to my wife, but you have got to get a hold of yourself.”

Éomer glared.

“You never planned to be king, never meant to be king, but now, you are king. Because you did not know, you asked for advice from your advisors, not only the old council, but had younger ones added as well.”

“I did not have a choice. Many died in Gondor.” His expression softened. “Their advice has been welcomed. Rohan is recuperating. Elessar and Imrahil have also been a huge help.”

Gamling nodded. “You have taken advice in the running and rebuilding of Rohan. Take advice now from a married man on marriage. Winter is not quite over. Women are different. They take pleasure in making sure every flower, every plate, every bed is set just so. They make our lives much more comfortable.” He smirked, “Before the war, I was content to roll up in my cloak by the fire in the Great Hall. The very thought makes my back hurt now.” That made Éomer snort in laughter. “Éomer, had you just ridden into Dol Amroth with no warning, Lothiriel would not have been prepared. Aye, it is your wedding, but it is hers as well. As a woman, she will want something special to remember.”

“Are you saying I should send a messenger now and wait longer? Until summer?”

“Truth be told?” Gamling ran his hands through his hair. “A messenger was sent… oh… five weeks ago.”

Éomer drew up. “ _You_ sent a messenger… wait…” he drew up a finger in thought. “You did not send a messenger. Aefre did!” 

“Aye, so when you storm into Dol Amroth in a few weeks, she will at least be forewarned and prepared. There are traditions and things that are to be observed. Even here in the Riddermark, it is more than wrapping her up in your cloak and leaving your door unlocked! Who knows what rituals her people observe. The more warning she has, the better prepared she will be and all the more ready she will be to marry you sooner and return home to Rohan.“ Gamling paused so his words would sink in. “Everyone has something they are good at. Your éored know battle, your council knows how to run a town or settlement. Farmers know farming and animal husbandry. Your Riders know horses. Let the women do what they know and are good at and trust them to do it properly.”

Éomer sighed. “You are right, I know you are right and I thank you for bringing me away from Edoras so I could act the fool in private.”

Gamling turned his horse around and waited for the king to come even with him. “Not a fool, Éomer. You are simply tired of waiting.” With a nudge, the two men prodded their horses into an easy walk. “No one blames you. We understand.”

They walked peacefully for a few moments, watching the sun make its slow march across the sky and from a distance, observed many of the servants from Edoras clean and mark the fields for planting. Several had wheelbarrows, dumping the old shavings and manure from the muck piles in to fertilize the fields. “When do you think your wife will allow me to leave?”

It was said with such trepidation, Gamling barked in laughter. “We are to begin meeting with your Marshal’s and their éoreds in Dunharrow in five days.”

Éomer turned in surprise. “Really? That soon?” 

Gamling was still laughing. “Aye. Aefre is sending tents, pack horses and cookstaff to the holding as we speak, so all will be prepared when we get there.”

“No wagons? We are going through the Dwimorberg?” 

“Aye.”

They continued to walk.

“Through the Dwimorberg will, of course be more direct, however I am sure many of the ladies traveling will not like it.”

Gamling thought of Aefre. “There are no ghosts.” He then remembered the reports from the messengers who went through the mountain. “I will make sure the Riders know to bring torches. The way is… “

“Crunchy?” Éomer supplied. “It is said the Dwarf at a difficult time walking over the bones of the dead.”

Both men shuddered.

“Léoma will be frightened.” 

The comment Éomer made did not catch Gamling off guard. In the past weeks, the young king showed interest in the children living in Edoras, going as far as to lay in the floor to play with them and in the evenings, before bedtimes, to allow them to sit in his lap and sprawl all over the dais, while he canted the tales of Eorl the Young, Brytta, Fréaláf and Thengel. He sang of the bravery of Théoden and how Éowyn, along with the Hobbit, killed the Witch King during the war. It was whispered that the king would be a most exemplary father and the children of Edoras had no fear of him, rather they loved him and greeted him as a beloved uncle and playmate. 

“Léoma will be staying with my mother. Her homestead is on our way and my younger sister Sulis recently had a child, so she will be well taken care of,”

“You are not bringing Léoma?” Éomer had second thoughts. “Then again, it might be a difficult trip for her. Ooh!” He inhaled sharply. “I need to send a messenger to Éowyn in Ithilien-“

“Already done.”

“Really?” Éomer was sitting straight up in his saddle. “Aefre thought of that as well?”

“My wife is most thorough.”

“Well!” Éomer sounded most pleased. “All I need to do is show up! Life is good!” He waited for a moment, obviously proud of himself. “Want to race?”

“Whenever you are ready, sire.”

The Rohirrim dust flew.

***   
tbc  
***


	10. 09 - How many bottles of what on the where?

__

#  LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

_****_

## Chapter 09

 _****_

### How many bottles of what on the where?

Imrahil looked up from the contracts he was trying to complete before lunch to see his clerk come in yet again. Without taking his face from his left fist, he held out his right hand and waited for the man to leave. He looked at the seal, recognizing it to be one of the clothiers his daughter was using. With a sigh, he sat up and lifted the large and ever growing pile on his desk and shoved it to the bottom.

*** 

It was vaguely reminiscent of when Théoden called the Muster of Rohan up for the war. 

Perhaps not. There were not so many; the other Marshal’s and their captains and high-ranking éoreds and it was a much happier occasion. Banners were flying, the hearty smells of cooking meat and stews and fresh caffe. 

“…noswillthistime…”

“Sire?” Gamling could hear Éomer muttering. 

“I said Éowyn is not here, so there should be no swill this time.”

“Ah.”

Éomer nodded to the supply wagons and hustle at the base of the mountain. “The tone is much different than the last time we were here.”

Gamling nodded.

“Of course, you have happy memories of this place. Your daughter was conceived here.”

Gamling smiled, obviously lost in pleasant reminiscence.

“Perhaps the magic of the mountain will come again for the two of you and this time Aefre will conceive a horse-lordlet. Of course, another shield maiden would be welcome.”

Gamling nodded, staring at the dark recess to the entrance of the Dwimorberg. 

The next thing he knew, Éomer’s fingers were snapping in front of his face. “Gamling!”

“Sire?” 

“A copper for your thoughts?”

Gamling shrugged. “I am looking forward to some quality time-”

_*Uninterrupted swingfromtherafters monkeysex!*_

“-with Aefre.”

Éomer smiled. “Missing your little one?”

“Aye.”

“You said she was fine when you left her with your mother.”

“Aye.” This time Aefre answered. “However she is used to our comings and goings, but we are always back within a few hours at most.” She smiled. “I hope she slept well last night.”

Gamling reached out and grasped her hand. “She is fine. My mother and my family will spoil her rotten.” They continued riding that way, slowly making their way towards Dunharrow.

They went up the winding path, nodding to those they knew. As they neared the top, they heard shouting, bellowing-

“Ah, Beornia is here.”

“GET BACK HERE, YOU LAZY GOOD FOR NOTHING LOUT! I TOLD YOU TO PACK THIS SADDLEBAG PROPERLY AND YOU HAVE SLUNG THINGS IN AS HAPHAZARDLY AS IF YOU WERE A DUNLINDING! GET YOUR MISERABLE ARSE OVER HERE OR I SHALL PACK YOU IN IT AS WELL! BÉMA’S BALLS! YOU ARE AS WORTHLESS AS WORMTONGUE’S WORMPRICK!!”

Both men grimaced. Aefre cringed. “That is not Beornia!”

“Apparently, she has company.”

“Ah! I thought I recognized the dulcet musical sounds of Elfhelm’s wife.” Gamling smiled. He leaned over to his wife. “Have I told you lately, how much I love you?”

At that moment, Elfhelm came from around a tent, took one look at who his wife – who in all honesty, was a stunning woman – was yelling at and made a beeline towards the king.

“Éomer, King! ‘Tis good to see you!” He took a hold of Firefoot’s bridle as the king dismounted. “Looking forward to your day of doom?” He leaned forward. “You can still get out of it, you know. We will let tell that you were lost in the caverns of the Dwimorberg, ne’er to be seen again.”

Éomer’s feet hit the ground and he took Firefoot’s lead. “I believe I shall be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Elfhelm’s wife’s voice hit a particularly screeching high pitch, causing all to shudder. “There are three rings in marriage. The betrothal ring, the wedding ring and then the suffering.”

“Who is she yelling at?” Aefre asked. “I feel sorry for the poor lad.”

“Fyren’s eldest, Fugol.”

“Oh. Never mind.” Fyren had been a loathsome Rider, not liked or particularly mourned much when he died at Pelennor Fields. Sadly, he left a barn full of wild children that the King agonized over in making sure they were taken care of. The majority - seven little orphaned Rohirrim - had stayed behind in Edoras with Gamling’s sister, Beornia and her two sons. The household was noisy, but healthy and happier than it had ever been and for all her bluster, it was obvious she adored her young charges. Two had gone to foster with Erkenbrand; he had twin sons of an age, but the two eldest boys had gone to Elfhelm, in hopes to keep either of them from following in their father’s footsteps.

“At least his younger brother learns from Fugol’s mistakes. Would that Fugal would learn from them.” Another string of foul language rose on the air.

“Elfhelm!” Gamling was aghast. “Does she kiss you with that mouth?”

It didn’t take long for Elfhelm to reply. “That mouth is quite talented. Especially at night in the dark.” He turned to Aefre who was smiling rather saucily. “I live for the night.”

“Oh, that was more information than I ever needed to hear.” Éomer had his fingers in ears, as if to clean them. He adroitly changed the subject. “Has Erkenbrand arrived?”

“No, but a rider from his holdings informed me he was bringing their brothers. Perhaps if I promise to allow them time together, it will sweeten Fugol a little bit.”

There was a crash of something large dropped. Or slung.

“Then again, maybe not.” Elfhelm dipped his head. “That boy has no respect for women.” There was now more cursing by more than one voice. “I better go break them up, before Lýðrest beans him into next harvest.” He turned to enter the fray, but added over his shoulder. “Not that I would mind, mind you.”

Servants took the horses and Éomer made his way through the encampment, nodding and greeting everyone. At some point, Aefre wandered off, to find Beornia and see who the group was still waiting on. Éomer stepped into his tent; the rugs laid thickly, a large pile in the middle, along with a mattress, pillows, and furs. Braziers were lit, giving the space a very cozy feeling. No one would believe it was still cool out. 

“It is too much. We cannot take this through the Dwimorberg.” 

“We do not intend to, Éomer. Small tents will be taken, along with some ground cover, but they will have to fit comfortably on the packhorses. Enjoy it while you can.”

Éomer was still taking it all in; the time and effort that went into the ensuring of his comfort; the grandness of it. With a derisive snort, he exited the tent and back into the cool breeze. He found a fire, with a fresh pot of caffe and poured himself a mug. He waited for Gamling to fill his before he headed to the entrance of the Dwimorberg. 

“There is already whispering about it.”

“There are no ghosts.”

Gamling took a sip, savoring the bitter heat of the drink. “Aye, I know that. But they are still whispering.”

“Make sure there are plenty of torches made up and that each rider has one or two. Not every one has to be lit when we go through it.” He thought for a moment. “It will not hurt if the more antsy ones have had a little bit of hard ale.” He looked at Gamling hard. “How well does Aefre hold her ale?”

“Aefre out-belches me.” 

Éomer stared. “Why do my Marshals insist on telling me things I do not need to know?” 

“Because you ask.”

*** 

True to Aefre’s prediction, it took three days for everyone to arrive. Panniers and saddlebags were packed, repacked, redistributed. Women, especially the daughters, were wringing their hands at the imagined wrinkles and damage to their clothing. One captain was overheard telling his seventeen summers old daughter that if he caught her so much as making eyes at a guard from Dol Amroth, she was going straight home. He did not elaborate on how she was going to get back home, but by Béma, she was going home!

Fugol and his brothers were sent to back to Elfhelm’s under his steward’s charge. He let Fugol see him hand over the keys to the stockade to ensure proper behavior. Erkenbrand’s twin sons were sent as well, with quiet orders to keep the two younger boys out of trouble and out of Fugol’s way if things turned ugly.

By early dawn’s light, the fourth morning, the packhorses were lined up. The Riders were spaced between supply animals and the women. Breakfast had been partaken of and after saying their farewells, they began to mount up. Éomer heard a soft groan. 

“Lady Aefre? Are you feeling a-right?”

Aefre stretched her back and listened to her spine crack. “My back is a might sore, but nothing that will not be stretched out.”

Éomer was immediately concerned. “Did you not sleep well? Were your furs not to your liking?” He caught the sly shared grin between his Marshal and his wife. A slow, dawning smirk spread over his face. “A-haaa.” He shook his finger. “Never mind.”

The caravan began to line up and torches were handed out. As Éomer made his way to the front, he heard grumbling from some of the younger girls.

“Are you Rohirrim?” he asked one solemnly. She appeared to be thirteen summers.

“Yes sir.” The girl bowed her head, cowered and embarrassed that her king singled her out. No doubt her glaring da would be hissing in her ear when Éomer passed. 

He angled Firefoot closer and whispered, “I am scared too and I am _leading_ this party.” He nodded towards the front. “Would you like to ride with me a ways?”

Her eyes widened. “Really?” 

“Really.” The girl reined her horse from the line-up and followed the king to the head of the line. “What is your name?”

“Cyrtenes, daughter of Cáflic, but my brothers call me Níetan.”

“Your brothers call you ‘Little Beast’?” Éomer clicked his tongue in disapproval. “How many do you have?”

“Five. I was the last.” She sighed as only a young teenaged girl could. “They tell me I will not amount to anything.”

“And yet, who is riding in front with the king?”

Her grin lit the sky.

“Éomer King!” Elfhelm hollered good – naturedly as the two moved ahead, “my messenger tells me the paths are crunchy with the dead!”

Cyrtenes looked over her shoulder. “Crunchy with your fear, maybe!”

The ‘oohs’ could be heard echoing throughout the line and the King knuckle – saluted her. “Good one!” 

As the sun rose behind them, they entered the pass, a servant at the mouth of the cave with a lit torch, lighting every other torch in the line. The carvings and warnings at the entrance remained, and Éomer paused not only in fear – for these were the Paths of the Dead – but also to bolster his composure. The way was narrow and he turned to Cyrtenes. “Stay behind me and watch the ceiling. You are to tell those behind you to duck when necessary.” He nodded to the servant. “Take a lit torch, little one.” He ducked his head and entered the hollow.

The morning light did not go far into the cavern and Cyrtenes was glad not only for the nearness of Rohan’s King, but also that he let her hold the torch. They wound their way slowly, deeper into the recess. 

Messengers who used the enclosed pass told Éomer that they learned not to look down or to the side, simply straight ahead. He remembered that advice too late, when a bony arm suddenly jutted from the wall. He skittered to the side, only to hear Firefoot’s hooves…

…crunch.

_Béma, look at the skulls…_

He heard Cyrtenes gasp.

“Cyrtenes, I want you to focus on the ceiling and no lower than the back of my saddle.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was no sound, save for the occasional ‘duck your head, rider’ and the crunching of bone beneath the horses hooves. One would have thought the remains of the dead would have been pulverized by now, but the sound echoed grotesquely throughout the cavern. After a time, a different sound made its way to the front of the line.

“Cyrtenes, what is the din behind us?”

The girl yelled to the back, the question repeating itself over and over until the answer came back in similar fashion. “They are singing.”

Éomer smiled. Singing. The Rohirrim always sang; in battle, in happiness, in sadness. Of course they would sing during unsettling and fitful times. “Tell them to sing louder, so we may join them.”

Within minutes, Éomer and Cyrtenes were singing along with gusto, their voices echoing ahead.

_…96 bottles of mead on the wall, 96 bottles of mead  
take one down, pass it around  
how many bottles of mead on the wall?_

*** 

Deep in the mountain, behind the rubble, the ruins, a solitary ghost sat on a rock. For some reason, he had not paid attention to the call of the King of the Dead, lo, those many moons ago. He had been long enamored of the colorful geo-stones deep in the mountain and missed it. He missed the going to war and being released with his brethren. There was no chance the King of Gondor would return to release just him. So now he sat, way high, watching the singing Rohirrim ride through the ruins. He propped his bony chin on his hand.

“I hate the living.”

***   
tbc  
***


	11. 10 - The Thunder of Rohan

__

LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

__

Chapter 10 

__

The Thunder of Rohan 

Imrahil did not even look up when the clerk came in. He simply held out his hand and waited for the weight of the bill to be placed in it. His attention never left the complaint spread out and weighted on his desk. He simply waited for the door to shut. When it did, he one-handedly flicked the scroll open, just enough to look. He snorted. “Farm animals. She is buying farm animals!” He then gently dropped it in the large pile in the basket next to his desk.

***

The party exited the White Mountains singing watered down versions of bawdy pub songs, watered down for the sake of the younger ones. Cyrtenes rode the entire way through the caverns in front with Éomer, making her brothers very jealous indeed. It was a memory she would talk of and keep until her dying day and a tale she told her grandchildren and great-grandchildren in the years to come; riding at the head of the line with Éomer Eadig, King of Rohan and singing ‘100 Bottles of Mead on the Wall’ in the Paths of the Dead.

They followed the river Morthond past Erech and Tarlang’s Neck, catching small game as they went. On more than one occasion, Elfhelm could be seen chasing his laughing wife at the waters edge in the early evenings, much to the enjoyment of his captains. The local farmers were friendly, more so when they saw that the large group of horse riders had their own supplies and would not be raiding their stores. Despite every attempt to travel at a leisurely pace, Éomer pushed and prodded, usually to no avail. One particular afternoon, the party was moving very slowly, much to Éomer’s ire.

“I could walk faster than this! Why must we be so slow?” He threw his arms spread wide in a pose that two Mordor – bound Hobbits would have recognized. “I WILL DIE A LONELY OLD MAN! I WILL STAAAAAARVE FOR LOVE!”

Aefre rode past him, a scowl on her face, Gamling close behind. “You are such a drama king!”

“But I am king and I say we go faster!”

At that point, Edellhond came into view.

*** 

They took a day’s rest at Edellhond.

Éomer said it did not rival Rivendell in beauty, however Aefre found the haven peaceful and as lovely as the hanging gardens in Minas Tirith. 

Gamling said flowers were flowers. 

He almost found himself sleeping in the stable with his horse.

*** 

“I feel like a pincushion!”

“Ah, but you are a beautiful pincushion!”

Lothiriel stood with her arms spread out, standing on a stool, while dressmakers and assistants circled around her like maypole dancers. Her normally neat apartments looked as if a gale force wind had torn through them, leaving material remnants and ribbons hanging from the oddest places. Frankly, she didn’t know how her brothers’ wives could stand it, spending hours at the dressmakers. Personally, she was not the least bit upset if she were seen in the same dress twice. What was the fuss?

“I think my brother will not wait long to whisk you away somewhere private and secluded once the formalities are settled.” Éowyn was pilfering through a basket of remnants and ribbons. 

“If he waits until then,” Arwen finished. She walked around the small stool Lothiriel was standing on, admiring the dressmaker’s handiwork. “I hope you like this. The style suits you.”

The royal party from Gondor arrived a week before, Elessar and Faramir closeting themselves with Imrahil, Haleth sent with Abéodan, and Arwen arriving with her own elven dressmaker. It was a gift, she claimed, as elven designs should suit the princess with elven blood. The material was a deep, emerald green, with a train attached at the shoulder. The sleeves were long, to be buttoned from the elbow to wrist, the skirts, slashed with white. Rohan’s emblem, the running horse was to be embroidered in gold among the slashes. 

“I love it. I cannot thank you enough.” She then nodded to Éowyn. “And thank you for the loan of your dressmaker. Mine was scandalized at the thought of making leggings for me.”

“Probably because she never has made them!” Éowyn laughed. “Faramir eventually gave me a pair of his old ones and she and I experimented until we got them right!” The small group sat through several more minutes of fittings before the dressmakers and their assistants left for the time being, taking dresses and material with them. Daien retired for the afternoon; she was due at any time and her babe dropped so low, her back ached. Lataie went with her, supposedly to rub her feet and read to her, but the truth was, no one was allowing her time alone, due to the closeness of her child’s pending arrival. As the noise level dropped, Lothiriel became more introspective, more thoughtful.

“Is something amiss?” Arwen was all-knowing. 

Lothiriel smiled. “Anxious. Scared. Cannot wait. Excited.” She looked around the room, scraps and pieces scattered everywhere. “I did something rash yesterday.” She made her way through the debris and headed to her eastern balcony. The sky was clear, the ocean breeze scenting the potted blooming daffodils. She stood at the railing, staring off to the mountains on the horizon. “In talking with Abéodan, I discovered the Westfold is having a difficult time recuperating and rebuilding their farms and livestock. So I bought farm animals.” She shrugged. “I have no idea how I am going to get them to Rohan, if I bought too many or not enough, but I bought calves and piglets and sheep and chickens in the market. The proprietor looked at me as if I were insane.”

Éowyn was chuckling. “Not insane. Simply very kind and thoughtful of you.”

Lothiriel’s small smile faded. “I want them to like me, Éomer’s people. I am afraid because I am foreign and different, they will consider me an intruder-”

Éowyn’s arms stole around her and she rested her chin upon the younger woman’s head. “They are aware all the things you have done to ease their lot and are appreciative. Look at what Éomer’s Marshals have done to ensure you are prepared when he arrives.”

“This is true,” Arwen added. “I cannot imagine how desperate Gamling and his wife were to send one so young to warn us. Although,” she added slyly, “Haleth has obtained a heavy purse, racing our cavalry.”

“They have challenged him!” Éowyn retorted hotly. “It serves them right when they take on a Rohirrim rider.” 

“Especially a young one who is light and rides bareback.”

Éowyn noticed Lothiriel was twisting Éomer’s ring. “Lothiriel, please do not worry about the livestock. We will get them to the Westfold. I do not know why we ourselves did not consider that.”

“Oh, it is not that…” she let her voice trail. “I am in need of advice and I am frightened to ask.”

“Lothiriel.” Arwen stood next to the young woman. “It is only the three of us. Please speak, ask.”

“I feel quite stupid.”

“The only stupid question is an unasked one.” 

Lothiriel turned, her back to the scenery and looked to ensure their privacy on the balcony. “I was… am… curious…” Both married women broke out into grins, having a clue as to where this was going. “Stop that! You only make it worse!” She took a deep breath.

“Ymbsprecan! Speak!” 

“A few weeks back,” Lothiriel finally spat, “I went quietly to the stables. Elphir was breeding a prize mare with a stallion and he insisted the stable was no place for a lady at the time. I snuck up in the hayloft, but I saw… well… I saw… it…” she trailed off, waiting. Both Éowyn and Arwen looked at her expectantly. “Please tell me that Éomer is not that large!” 

Both women burst out laughing, Arwen getting to Lothiriel first to hug her in reassurance.

“I cannot speak from personal experience about Éomer, but no man is hung like a stallion!” Éowyn snickered. “If it were so, there would be no babes because women would hide like the Entwives.” 

“Maybe that is why the Entwives hid?” Arwen queried. “Then again, Glorfindel is quite the specimen.” She put her hand to her mouth when both Lothiriel and Éowyn looked at her, stunned. “At least, that is the rumor I heard a long time ago.” She shook her head. “He and Erestor have been together for so long, I cannot imagine anything of the like.”

Lothiriel looked far from relieved. She concentrated on a pot of bright yellow daffodils. “It was just shocking and… strange and it intrigued me and frightened me,” she didn’t notice the two women were smiling knowingly. “And then there is the naked part.” She looked up at them. “Do I have to get naked?”

“It is much easier.” 

“Believe me, you will not feel ashamed or self – conscious for long.”

“You will actually prefer it sooner than later.”

“Do you like bathing with Elessar?” Éowyn’s question came from nowhere. “I like bathing with Faramir. He is especially attentive to my back and I love it when he washes my hair.” 

“YES!” Lothiriel was now looking completely scandalized. Arwen continued in that vein. “What is it about a dirty sweaty man that makes you want to nail him the minute he walks in the door?” Lothiriel was now hyper-ventilating and gasping for breath. 

“I KNOW!” Éowyn didn’t notice Lothiriel was turning blue. “Back in autumn, Faramir had been gone several days on patrol and when I saw him come into the courtyard, I sent the servants home! I pushed them out the backdoor and got dirty with him!” She smiled in memory. “He claims he wore the imprint of the entryway tile on his backside for days.” She crossed her arms and had the nerve to look affronted. “He lies. He wore it for two days! I looked!” 

Arwen finally realized Lothiriel was having difficulty breathing. “Lothiriel! Inhale!” It took a moment for Lothiriel to finally catch her breath. “We have terrified her!” Arwen led her to a chair and helped her sit. “Lothiriel. I chose a mortal life to marry Elessar. If that part was a chore or a burden, I would not have done it!”

“Aye,” Éowyn joined her. “You are frightened of the uncertainty, but that is normal and to be expected.” She struggled for words, in attempt to reassure her soon to be sister, without telling that women regularly sought Éomer’s bed since he was a young Rider. “Éomer would not harm you. I will not lie; it will sting a bit, but if you relax and breathe and for Béma’s sake, keep moving, it will fade quickly and there will be such pleasure! He is patient and will seek your delight. He will not treat you as chattel or ill-use you. The marriage bed is a joy, a refuge…” Éowyn looked up, in a sense to receive confirmation from Arwen.

But Arwen wasn’t paying attention. She cocked her head sideways, listening.

“Is something wrong?” 

“Shh.”

Arwen now took a long finger tucking the hair behind her delicately pointed ear. “I hear something.” The group fell silent. “It sounds like… thunder?”

“There are no clouds…” Lothiriel whispered.

“No!” Éowyn heard it now and recognized the sound. She ran to the edge of the balcony, looking towards the river and the White Mountains. Dust was rising outside the city gate and she smiled. “It is an éored!” 

Lothiriel was struggling to get out of the chair. “An éored? Éoreds are for battle…”

Éowyn turned to face the woman. “Not necessarily. An éored is a cavalry of horsemen. Lothiriel!” She gestured to the young woman. “Freshen up. Dress! Éomer has not sent a warning messenger or a scout. He is coming. He is just beyond the city gates!”

 

*** 

The entrance was stately, regal. Gamling was glad of that. He was afraid he'd have to put Aefre pinion on Éomer’s mount to keep him from charging the palace gates. The people of Dol Amroth had become used to the messengers of Rohan in the past months, carrying missives between Edoras and their seaside city, but never had they seen this many...

…horses.

Or long haired men, blonde giants, in leather and brass-beaten armor. 

And women in leggings.

Gamling heard a loud gasp and turned to see a rather well dressed lady looking at his wife... his Aefre... with a look of pure shock. It irritated him, that anyone would look down on his lady-wife.

"Abiterian-catte!" It was out of his mouth, spoken aloud before he thought twice.

Aefre jerked her head. "Who are you calling a sour-puss?" 

He leaned across with a smile. "Not you."

"Your banner is drooping."

Gamling jerked the staff upward, the wind still whipping it about with sharp cracks. "Éomer King!" He called out jovially in Rohirrim. "Why are you speeding up? Are you so anxious to go to your doom?"

"Gamling! Stop that!" Aefre was hissing, trying to be heard over the chuckling guard.

Too quickly, good-natured, ribald taunts were being shouted forward, the recipient, their King, staring stoically ahead, focused on the ever growing Palace of Dol Amroth, seat of the Prince. Aefre rolled her eyes. Béma forbid anyone other than the riding Rohirrim could understand the language.

Éomer was now at a trot, whether in hurry to reach the palace gates or put as much distance between he and his rather undisciplined guard, was anyone's guess, but after a fierce scowl and difficulty trying to find the right words in the right language...

"Aefre! He's speeding up and I can't think of the right words..."

Aefre didn't want to embarrass her husband, her king's Marshal and Banner-man. She rode closer and whispered in his ear. He nodded once before picking up speed and pulling ahead of Éomer.

"MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY FOR THE KING OF ROHAN! ROHIRRIM! MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY!"

As expected (and hoped), the crowd took a step back, Gamling continuing his charge, moving ever closer to the palace. By the time they reached the open gates, the Rohirrim were at a slow gallop. 

Two guards blocked the way.

"Who approaches for entrance to the palace?" the more pompous of the two asked in a rather loud, effeminate voice. Gamling's eyebrow went up. Before he could speak, Éomer rode around him, going wide around the two guards, who immediately looked over their shoulders in horror.

"Me!" Éomer retorted, continuing on.

"Kind sirs," Aefre approached and smiling down graciously. "The King of Rohan has come to visit his Intended. Would you be so kind to announce us?"

The younger of the guards of the two guards looked squint-eyed and arrogantly up at the indecently dressed lady. The sun was blinding. "And how are we to know he is the King of Rohan?"

“The horse’s tail on his helmet for one thing,” Gamling’s tone was condescending. 

By this time, Éomer had reached the palace doors. As he dismounted, they opened, Éowyn, her husband Faramir, Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor, and Prince Imrahil came through the opening doors, Éowyn launched herself at her brother. He was vaguely aware of a young stableboy taking Firefoot’s bridle.

“As well as the way the White Lady of Rohan has greeted him.” Aefre finished.

"It has been too long. Éomer, how fare you?" Éowyn searched her brother's face. "You have had a long ride. We shall get your horse stabled and a bath drawn-"

“Who did they send to you?” He turned to look. “Haleth?” At the mention of his name, the young Rider materialized from nowhere and took Firefoot's reins from the stableboy. He seemed to be very mindful of his boots.

"He has earned his first cloak, my brother, riding to Faramir’s home and mine. Do not be spiteful. He has had quite the adventure."

Éomer was shocked. "Why would I be spiteful? Haleth!" He winked at the blushing young teen. "Repeat the message I had you speak to my sister?"

Haleth bit his lip before standing up straight. "The message you sent was 'Éomer King will retrieve and wed Princess Lothiriel as soon as the snow melts. Please meet him in Dol Amroth." He smiled quickly, before studying the cracks in the pavement again. 

 

"Very good, Haleth." The King nodded. "We will be sure to celebrate your first Rider cloak soon after our return to Rohan." He turned away muttering to himself, “Now that I know what I said.”

"Earning your cloak, especially your first Rider cloak, is a big thing in Rohan; something to celebrate," Éowyn whispered to Faramir.

"Like losing your virginity?" he whispered back. He worked hard not to yelp when she elbowed him in the waist.

"Éomer King," Prince Imrahil stepped up to the blonde giant he would soon be calling 'son-in-law,' "We have rooms for you and your entourage. If you like, we can-"

"Lothiriel. I would like to see Lothiriel." Éomer was attempting to peer around the entourage blocking his way into the palace. 

Imrahil inhaled and continued politely. "We have prepared a light repast to sent to your rooms upon your arrival-"

"How long have you been watching?" This was directed at Éowyn. 

"We've been watching your dust for some time, Éomer. The Prince has excellent rooms for you and your Marshal's, quarters and arranged lodging for your éored-"

"Lothiriel." This was directed at Prince Imrahil. "I would like to see Lothiriel. Now."

The Prince was more than aware that this King out-ranked him and was highly honored by not only the King of Gondor, but by the Elves as well. His bravery in battle was not only noted, it was whispered of in awe. That he was well respected and considered a desirable catch for many a noble’s daughter had not escaped him. However, Lothiriel was his only daughter and he was not going to be pushed around in his own palace by one many of his people considered barbarian.

Even if she did love him.

"Shall you come inside? I will have the servants bring your things to your rooms. I am sure the Marshal's lady," he nodded to Aefre, "would like to come in and refresh herself." He stepped around Éomer and took Aefre by the hand, as she dipped in the most miniscule of curtsies. "Last I saw you, you were expecting a baby. You had a safe and healthy delivery?"

"Yes. Thank you, my lord." 

"Girl." Gamling spoke up. "We had a girl."

"She has her father's temper." Aefre completed for him. "Her name is Léoma, which mean's 'Light'"

" A beautiful name for a... Éomer?" The Prince turned around to see... "Éomer King?"

No Éomer.

Faramir was trying hard not to chuckle. "I believe..."

"... he really wants to see your daughter." Elessar finished.

The party - including all the now dismounted Rohirrim - quickly filed into the Grand Hallway. The chamber was large, quite enormous, with grand staircases spiraling down both sides. Éomer stood in the middle, looking up, looking around, looking everywhere.

"LOTHIRIEL!"

His voice, used to carrying over activity in a bustling stable yard, being heard over chaos in the heat of battle, echoed powerfully through the room. He listened for a moment, for anything in the silence.

"LOTHIRIEL!"

There came a sound of daintily slippered feet - more than one pair - from the upper hallways. From the upper balcony, Arwen, Elven Queen of Gondor leaned over. "Éomer King of Rohan," she started with a smile. "You bellow like my husband."

"I am a Man," he retorted jovially. "It is what we do. Now, stop stalling and tell me where..."

At that moment, Lothiriel appeared at the top of the banister, next to Arwen. "Éomer? Is that you?"

"No." Gamling was standing behind Faramir. "It is a bothersome moth, flitting..."

Faramir looked over his shoulder. "When did you become so glib, old man?" Despite the words, it was spoken with reverence and the lightness of a good friend.

Gamling nodded towards Aefre, busy watching the unfolding spectacle. "Marriage. Does strange things to a man."

"Still happy?" Éowyn whispered?

"Aye. Most."

Lothiriel had finally begun her slow descent down the stair case, …

_***slow, slow, one step, one foot, one foot now the next slow slow slow***_

…fingertips gliding along the banister. She wore a close cut gown of red; her necklace and ear bobs were firedropped rubies. On her hand, she wore the small, dainty ring with Rohan’s crest that Éomer had made for her before he left Gondor, when he attended Arwen and Elessar's wedding. For too many heartbeats, she glided down the stairs, meeting Éomer at the base.

He couldn't look at her, drink in enough of her. She was more beautiful than he remembered. Slowly, he removed his helmet, shaking loose his hair, messy and knotted from the long ride. Suddenly, he realized he ... smelled. Smelled of dust and sweat and leather...

He thrust his helmet to the side, waiting for Gamling to take it. Once its weight was removed from his hand, he reached over and took Lothiriel by the hand and gently pulled her towards him. He towered over her, her tiny frame, made even smaller, by the hugeness, the very maleness that was the King of Rohan.

“I smell. I am sorry, but I could not wait.”

“I noticed.”

"I have come for you."

"I know."

"Are you ready?"

She smiled wide. "Oh yes."

"Come here."

Prince Imrahil began to move, as if to separate the King and his daughter. Gamling held him back. "…ábídan..."

_***wait***_

Lothiriel stepped into his embrace, not truly aware than when his arms wrapped around her, to hold her close, his nose inhaling the very scent of her hair, her skin, his fists were filled with the edge of his cloak, wrapping them both in it.

Gamling was the first to realize what he was seeing. He turned the Prince loose and spoke up. "I see you, Princess Lothiriel, wrapped in the cloak of Éomer King of Rohan." He sank to one knee, his voice echoing. "My Queen."

Aefre followed. "I see you, Princess Lothiriel, wrapped in the cloak of Éomer King." She sank into a deep curtsey. "My Queen."

"I see you," continued Éowyn, "Lothiriel, wrapped in my brother's cloak."

"I see Lothiriel," Arwen's voice was ageless and ancient, echoing in the high reaches of the ceiling, "wrapped in Éomer of Rohan's cloak."

"I see you..." Elfhelm was already on one knee.

"I see you, Princess Lothiriel, wrapped in-"

"Princess Lothiriel wrapped in Éomer King's..."

"-iriel, wrapped in Éomer King's cloak, My-"

“I see you, my Queen…”

"My Queen."

“…wrapped in…”

"My Queen."

"My Queen."

“…see you, Princess…”

"My Queen”

“I see you…”

"My Queen."

"My Queen."

One by one, every Rohirrim, save Éomer, sank to their knees, heads bowed.

Lothiriel looked up in shock at Éomer. "Éomer? What is this?”

Éomer smiled. "Hello, wife."

_TBC_

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v152/ZeeDippyVessel/Fic%20Artwork/?action=view&current=10.jpg)

_ymbsprecan – speak_


	12. Chapter 12

****

#  LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

****

##  Chapter 11 

****

###  Ring the bells and sing it from the rafters! I’m getting married… eventually. 

*** 

“Would someone again, please explain to me what happened in my receiving hall earlier today?”

The ‘light repast’ was skipped. Luggage was taken to assigned rooms, horses had been stabled and rubbed down by their Rohirrim Riders, Éomer and his Marshals were housed within the palace, captains and other members of the éored were given rooms at the nicer inns closer to the palace. While all sat in state for dinner, servants were gadding about, steaming clothing, oohing and aahing over the elaborate Rider cloaks, the different Rohirrim fashions of their women, pointing at the leggings and tunics obviously not meant for the men. Many a young Rohirrim girl was catching looks from the young men of Dol Amroth. The father of the one young woman, who early on was told she would be sent home, ended up growling at several young men who gaped a bit too much.

So now the Royal Family, along with their guests from Gondor and the high éored of Rohan, sat at the long table while course after course was presented. Imrahil sat at the head of the table, flanked by Elessar and Faramir. Éomer and Lothiriel sat at the far end, their heads so close together they looked attached. Many imagined that under the table, their hands and knees ‘met’ many times. They were clueless anyone else was in the room, as it should be.

“It is Rohirrim custom for a Rider to wrap his intended in his cloak,” Arwen explained. “It has been tradition for centuries.”

“So, they are now married?” 

“According to the Rohirrim?” Elessar responded. “Yes.” 

Imrahil scowled. There was more to this than he was being told and he was determined to find out. Rohirrim custom was well and good, however, there were contracts to be signed, bells to be rung and a waiting period to be decided. There was protocol to be followed. He looked up and down the table to see exactly who he could get a straight answer from.

“Lady Aefre.”

Gamling and his wife were seated close to Éomer. It took several requests; eventually a chain of nudges and whispers down the table to get Aefre’s attention. As she looked down the table, Imrahil elbowed Faramir. “Exchange places with her. That way I will not have to yell up and down the table.”

“Would anyone like to see my vanishing table cloth act?” Amrothos called out.

“NO!” came the overwhelming response. 

Eventually, Aefre made her way to the head of the table, questioning glances from her husband. Faramir helped her with her chair and she set her glass down. “My Lord? You wish for witty conversation and banter about the care for Meduseld’s banners and the planting of the kitchen garden?” 

The Prince of Belfalas smiled. “I recall you are a wonderful conversationalist, that you keep your husband on his toes, but mostly that one can get a thorough, if not complete answer from you.” Aefre nodded to Imrahil and Elessar and raised her glass to be refilled with more wine. “I want to know what happened in my receiving hall and the significance of a Rohirrim man wrapping a woman in his cloak.”

All eyes were on Aefre and the table grew quiet. “My Lord, the Rohirrim are a simple people. Yes, we have settlements and homesteads, farms and such. But many of our people were nomadic and have been for many generations; hundreds of years. They followed the herds, moved cattle from spot to spot so as to not over tax the soil. There were times holy men or women or even leaders of high importance were not nearby to complete certain rituals; marriages, funerals.”

“A Rider’s cloak is a precious thing. It is a symbol of his station, his training, his leadership abilities and standing. It is used as a symbol of statute. It serves a multiple purpose; it keeps the wind, the rain and cold from him when he rides. It is also what he sleeps in when on patrol or traveling. It protects him and all he holds dear safe, warm, and dry.”

“Therefore, if he wraps a woman in his cloak, he is making a statement she is under his protection. It is a visible sign to all that she is dear to him. Due to lack of proper ceremony at times on the Riddermark, to be seen or caught wrapped in the cloak of a Rider is a statement and a symbol of marriage.”

Imrahil sat mesmerized, his glass barely clutched between his fingers. “Interesting use of the word ‘protection’. I was under the impression that women fought alongside men on Pelennor Fields.” He nodded to Éowyn, acknowledging her distinctions. 

Aefre stared at him. It made him uncomfortable because in that stare was a thousand stories not told that he was not sure he wanted to hear, much less know. “So, as Éomer King has wrapped my daughter in his cloak, the Rohirrim consider them married, making the contracts and agreements and negotiations over the last few seasons null and void.” He took a drink from his warming glass. “Amazingly simplistic.”

“Prince Imrahil,” Aefre was matter of fact and Gamling began to sit taller because he _knew_ this tone of voice from her and it did not bode well for the Prince. “Apparently, there are several nuances you missed or were not aware of. The majority of the time, the pronouncement of man and wife comes after they are caught wrapped up in sleep. So on one hand, my King saved your daughter from the preconceived embarrassment of being caught naked in the bed with him. I would think he loves her very much to spare her that as you are a foreign culture and doubtfully would understand that.” There was an audible hiss from the table. “Second, in wrapping her publicly, the moment he arrived, Éomer made the additional statement that regardless of settlement of dowry or agreements, regardless of her station, he would marry her. He desires her and her alone. He does not want her dowry, her jewelry, her connections, or her political power. He wants her! What an honor and privilege to be loved by the King of Rohan that he cares not for who or what she is. I know my King and believe me, he will honor your contracts and your traditions, however he loves her and he will marry her regardless even if she were a serving girl.” 

“Surely, you do not mean for us to believe that you were caught wrapped in your husband’s cloak the morning after your wedding!” Daien was holding a bit of chocolate daintily between her fingers. She leaned over and leered at her eating companion. “That would be quite barbaric.” 

Aefre smiled and it was not a nice one. Imrahil immediately felt sorry for the very public dressing down his daughter-in-law was about to receive. Daien could be vapid and silly, but truly she did not have a mean bone in her body.

“Barbaric?” Aefre’s eyes narrowed in vexation. “My mother came from west of Pelargir in Lebennin, near the Ethir Anduin. She fell in love with a man with a magnificent horse, a glorious head of hair and a kiss she told me made her toes curl and for whom she left her home and land to be with him, be his wife. A man who decided to see the world before he settled down and married as his father wished for him to. One of the stories my mother and grandmother told me was a custom in the area that concerned the bedsheet that the marriage was consummated on; that the bloody sheet would be hung from the roof or the ramparts of the home, proving the newly wedded couple had truly consummated their marriage. Is that custom here?”

Daien looked as if she wanted to crawl under the table. “Yes.”

“You fly a flag of blood, whereas we simply share warmth and security beneath a cloak. And you call us barbaric. As for your other question, Éomer King, Captain Éothain, and Prince Faramir had the honor of finding me wrapped in my husband’s cloak.” 

Aefre prodded her chair back before leaning toward Prince Imrahil, ensuring only he – and Elessar – could hear her. “Mark my words, Éomer has wrapped her well and publicly and we have proclaimed her our Queen. If he took her to his bed tonight, none of us would lift a finger to stop him and, in fact, would ensure it would take place, if it were his wish. Whatever traditions and customs you practice, I would set to them immediately and hurry. He desires her like none other and while he will honor the contract and your traditions, he will not wait long.” 

She stood up and backed away from the table. “Ladies and Gentlemen, my Lords,” she nodded to Imrahil and Elessar, “my King,” she nodded to Éomer, “my Queen,” she nodded to Lothiriel, enforcing her words that the couple were indeed wed in the eyes of the Rohirrim, “it has been a long journey and my husband is not the young, frisky colt he once was.” Elfhelm began to cough uncontrollably behind his napkin and even Éomer was shaking with mirth, “we bid you good eve.” 

As she stepped away from the table, she caught Daien in a stare. The woman blushed furiously. “I would put down the chocolate, if I were you. Your labor will begin tonight and your babe will come sometime on the morrow. Your stomach will not be happy with all the sugar you have put in it. I am sorry; it will be a long labor.” With that, she moved away from the table and waited for Gamling to come to her. 

As they went down the long, quiet hall, Gamling asked her what she whispered to the prince. When she told him, he shook his own leonine head. “They will not get a moment’s peace between now and the wedding.”

“Then we best ensure their own traditions are placed and executed swiftly. I would not put it past Éomer to climb into her bower and take her.”

*** 

Éomer presented himself in Imrahil’s office early the next morning, Lothiriel by his side. Elessar and Faramir were called for the witnessing of the signing of the formal contracts. Éowyn and Arwen attended also, Éowyn mostly due that she was her brother’s only kin. The only agreement not settled upon was the date of the marriage ceremony.

“There are customs we have, Éomer of Rohan,” Imrahil spoke slowly. He hadn’t slept very much that previous evening. Lady Aefre’s words rang in his ears and he knew the most difficult agreement of all would be this one. “Traditionally, when a wedding proclamation is made, bells are rung in our sacred places and the date is announced to all by our holy men.” He swallowed painfully. “There is usually a waiting period.”

“How long of a wait?”

“Two moons.” There was silence. “I believe I can quicken the pace and have the wait reduced to one moon-“

“What is wrong with today?”

“Today?” Imrahil choked. “Why… there are preparations-“

Éomer was a tall man and at this moment, he dwarfed every man in the room. “Prince Imrahil. It is spring in the Riddermark. My people are planting, preparing the fields. Our livestock will be breeding and this is the time wild men and Dunlendings will be at their most irksome. It is not the time for the king of Rohan, or her most loyal and battle-hardened marshals and captains to be leagues away. Gamling is most anxious to return home. His garrison and homestead are in the Wold and furthest from aid if something were to happen.”

“Perhaps, you should have waited until the summer?” Elphir had come in quietly and his mouth was tight. It looked as if he had not had much sleep.

“I wanted to come this past winter, however my Marshal and his wife urged me to wait and prepare Edoras for their Queen. Messengers were sent.” Éomer looked down at Lothiriel and took her hand gently. “I would marry you by your customs in five days. I will take and announce you as my queen that day. We have need to return to the Riddermark in ten days.” He then moved his gaze to Elessar. “Five days. According to my Marshal, I should show up where I am told, when I am told. I care not where or when, as long as it is within five days.” He was still holding Lothiriel’s hand. “I am going riding. I would be pleased if you joined me and showed me your homeland. I will meet you in the stables.” He turned her loose and headed towards the door. Just as he reached it, he stopped and turned. “The dress is beautiful,” he winked, “but I would see what Hæfern has taught you. Dress appropriately.” He winked again. “Elphir, how is your wife?”

His mouth was indeed in a grim line. “Lady Aefre was correct. Daien’s waters broke in the night and she was having a long time of it. I have been told not to expect our child’s arrival until sometime in the evening.” At this point, his shoulders visibly sagged. “They will not let me in. They tell me it is woman’s work and it was my job to go elsewhere and wait. I would rather be with her.”

Éomer looked at him thoughtfully. “When Gamling’s daughter came, the women sent him out to drink. Instead, he spent the night cleaning the stables from end to end. Perhaps, you should ride with us? I am sure the others going with us would enjoy your company as I intend to ignore them.” He was smiling at Lothiriel. “My attention will be elsewhere.” With that, he strode out the door.

A collective sigh was heard through the office, Imrahil’s knuckles white on quill he was holding. “If he thinks he can walk in and set terms and make demands,” he said tersely, “then he is sorely mistaken.”

“Father,” Lothiriel approached him gently. “He and I have waited on this marriage a year and a half. We have been more than patient. It has been hard on me as well. Put yourself in our place. What would you do?”

It was very quiet as Imrahil pondered his daughter’s words. “You look so much like your mother. I am going to miss you so very much.” 

Twenty minutes later, the bells of Dol Amroth were ringing, proclaiming the pending wedding ceremony of the Princess to the King of Rohan in five days.

*** 

Éomer decided quietly that riding in ships on unpredictable waters was the stupidest thing a man could do. Ah true, it was a beautiful sight and he was determined to char the memory deep in his mind so he never forgot, but he appreciated dry land to walk on, rather than a rolling deck.

Hæfern had outdone himself and Éomer made a mental note to make sure his so-called retired Captain was rewarded well. Lothiriel showed up in the stables, dressed in a well-tailored tunic and leggings and supple boots – no spurs. She saddled Nihtweard with an ease and quickness, proving she was doing this on a regular basis. Hæfern made it clear he refused to coddle her and insisted on proper care of her horse on her own. And, he added slyly, she did not whine, like her Sister-in-law, Lataie, and fell with amazing grace until she learned how to sit astride.

“I am sure you angered her kinsman, not treating her like a Princess,” Gamling snorted. 

“Fuck her family!” There was a reason the grizzled old rider stayed out of the palace, regardless of how many times Lothiriel invited him up for dinner. “She is to be Queen of Rohan, not Queen of some mamby-pamby panty-wipe, pussy-whipped princeling!”

“He has not changed,” Elfhelm snorted under his breath. “He taught my wife to swear.”

“Gamling!” Aefre whispered. “I am sure he is a favorite of the king’s but he is NOT returning to the Wold with us! Léoma will give us fits enough without his help!” 

Gamling was nodding in agreement. “He has been teaching Lothiriel to speak Rohirrim.”

Aefre clapped both hands to her mouth. “Sweet Mother of Béma! We have our work cut out for us on the return trip!”

Gamling agreed heartily. Who knew what the crusty rider taught her? Hæfern would find it funny for Lothiriel to enter Edoras and announce in her newly learned Rohirrim; _‘How the fekking Mordor are you and have a fekking great day! You are the fekkingest of the fekkers and I love the fekking lot of you!’_ He didn’t know if he should shudder or laugh. He decided to have a chat with Éomer before the day was out. 

With all that on their minds, the group rode out, taking in the town (who were still aghast at women in leggings!) and eventually to the beach.

Haleth and Abéodan were racing each other good naturedly up and down the beach, Haleth looking more relaxed than he had since arriving. Elphir kept looking back towards the castle, his heart definitely was elsewhere and Gamling stuck close to the man, understanding how he felt. When he learned that Elphir was the Master and Commander of the Royal Calvary in Belfalas, he remarked such to Éomer. 

“Hæfern has been a tremendous teacher, not only to Lothiriel, but to myself and my men. It has been an honor and a privilege. Even the short time young Abéodan has been here, my men have spoken of his knowledge. I was hoping,” he added with trepidation, “that we could continue to have someone visit simply to work with us, to teach us more and perhaps have an exchange of horses.”

Éomer smiled, his attention still mainly focused on Lothiriel. They were walking, hand in hand, and leading their horses. “It is in the contracts already, Elphir. I made sure of that. Young members of your cavalry are to spend a minimum of four seasons training at the garrisons of Edoras or the Marshals. Marshals Elfhelm and Erkenbrand command large garrisons, well known in Rohan. Gamling is rebuilding the garrison in the Wold, but expects to have it up and running at full-strength by the end of the summer.” 

“At my request, Rohan will also send horses to breed to our mares,” Lothiriel spoke up, “to strengthen their lines. It will be a good exchange for many years.”

Elphir was now dismounted, standing next to his sister. He pointed at Haleth. “That one has embarrassed several of my men already.”

“Haleth?” Éomer scowled. “Has he said something untoward? If he has not behaved in a proper manner, Gamling will-“

“Oh, he is fine.” Elphir raised his hands, to ward off Éomer from calling Gamling. “It seems he likes to race and has won some nice bets.” The man smiled. “Needless to say, they would like to bring him down a peg or two and as their commander, I have been… charged with his comeuppance.”

Éomer threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rich sound.

“Uh oh,” Éowyn whispered to Arwen and Aefre. “Éomer is getting ready to fleece someone!” 

“GAMLING!” Éomer called out, “Come! Tell us about your young rider.”

Gamling had not dismounted. He did not like how the sand felt or shifted beneath his boots. He trotted up to the small group and looked down. “Haleth? He does his father proud. He has a brave heart and fought admirably at Helm’s Deep. He is faster than the wind, prefers bareback and guiding with his knees. He trained,” he nodded to Haleth’s young stallion, “that one. He is a good horse, the boy is doing well.”

“I wish to race him.”

Gamling smiled. “Then challenge him, but do not be surprised if you lose.” 

Elphir challenged him. 

And lost by several horse lengths. 

It was not lost on Gamling that the boy was racing with a certain edginess he did not previously have, a sense of dread he did not have before. Faramir whispered that he rode as if the demons of the Black Tower were on his heels. He wondered what happened that would cause that sort of drive.

The Marshal had a feeling he knew what it was.

***


	13. 12 - It happened at Eomer and Lothiriel's Wedding

__

# LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

****

##  Chapter12 

****

### It happened at Éomer and Lothiriel’s wedding. 

Elphir’s wife gave birth late that evening to a healthy robust boy. She insisted that regardless of how she felt, she would attend her sister in law’s wedding. She then went to sleep.

True to Gamling’s prediction, Lothiriel and Éomer could not find a moments peace for the next several days. Neither were allowed out of anyone’s sight; Lothiriel’s personal maid, Thelielveril was ever present at Lothiriel’s elbow. 

Éomer was chaffing. It was painful to watch that even an attempt to speak to her privately was circumvented by her family and servants. They thought it a game. Gamling felt sorry for the man and in speaking with Elfhelm and Erkenbrand, they decided a little Rohirrim frivolity was in order. Even Aefre was of the same mind and along with Elfhelm and Erkenbrand’s wives, they agreed to host Éomer’s Rohirrim bachelor party later in the evening before the wedding in Gamling and Aefre’s assigned apartments. Elfhelm and Erkenbrand knew what was expected and between the six of them, Éomer would have a night, he would never forget.

*** 

Lothiriel was furious. “I am marrying the man tomorrow and you will not leave us be for five minutes, not for even a kiss!”

“I know what a man can do in five minutes!” Thelielveril huffed.

“Aye, because you let him and help him accomplish it!” Lothiriel retorted back. “Do not think no one knows of you and Hæfern!”

“My lady,” Thelielveril began tersely, in attempt to change the subject, “you have your reputation to uphold.”

‘Aye, as does Éomer, King of Rohan! What will we do? Force him to marry me on the morrow?”

Thelielveril crossed her arms deliberately, mostly to hide her whitening knuckles. “Obviously, my lady is stressed and needs a good night’s sleep. I will have the kitchens send up some warm milk to aid in your rest.” With that, the woman turned her back and stormed from the rooms.

Down the hallway, Aefre met the angry servant. She was carrying a small tray. “Ah, Thelielveril, has the Princess gone to bed yet?” She nodded to the teapot. “I went to the kitchens and had a nice relaxing tea made for her. No doubt she is excited about tomorrow.”

Thelielveril drew herself up. Mention of Hæfern upset her – they were trysting and as of this evening, he had not asked if she was traveling to Rohan and neither he nor Lothiriel had asked her to go. She liked the grizzled and crass old Rider more than she realized and the dawning comprehension that she was about to lose both mistress and lover was heart breaking. “Her temper is like a razor!” the woman retorted angrily, not willing to show her own hurt. “Take it to her if you wish, but be prepared for her spite.”

“Oh.” Aefre watched as the woman stormed down the hallway. “Lothiriel is upset as well.” She grinned slowly. “Good!” She made her way down the long hallway, taking note of the various guards and where they were stationed. She knocked on the door.

The door was flung open, Lothiriel’s cheeks inflamed in fury. “I do not need…” She quickly took a step back. “Oh! Lady Aefre! I thought you were someone else.”

“Thelielveril?”

Lothiriel dropped her head. “Aye. She has pushed me beyond my limits, I fear.”

Aefre stepped into the darkened room, with its single lamp burning. “Long day I take it and a longer night coming?”

“AAAARGH!” Lothiriel flung herself into a chair. “You have no idea! Is that tea?”

“Aye, but I would not drink it. It is fairly weak and I simply threw it on a tray as for an excuse to come by.” She set the tray down and sat down in the chair across from her. “How is your sister in law?”

“Well, I suppose.” She had her knees thrust out and apart, her head slung back, so she glared mutinously at the ceiling. “He is the spit of Elphir, especially when he screams, which is often.” Aefre struggled to not grin. “She insists on coming to the wedding. I do not know how she will stand the entire time.”

“Make sure a chair with a soft pillow is at the front for her. She will remember you kindly for it.”

Lothiriel slung her head from one side to the other. “Speaking of Daien, please forgive her churlish tongue the other night.”

“We are from a distant and strange land. No doubt what we take for granted is strange to your people. It is forgotten.” Aefre got up and went out on the balcony. “Why are you so angry with your serving woman?”

By now, Lothiriel was rubbing her eyes. “Just her attitude and her refusal to allow Éomer and myself some privacy. She acts as if all men have one thing on their minds!” 

Aefre grinned, all the while taking in the scenery from the balustrade. “In that, she is fairly correct. However, you have a right to be upset and I am glad you do in fact, get angry. You will need to raise your voice to Éomer, I am sure, a time or two.” She turned her back to the railing, bracing herself against the wall. “Your balcony is beautiful. Do you share it with anyone?”

“No. Just me.” Lothiriel spoke up, remaining indoors. “It used to upset me because I could not see the sea from it. In the last year, it upset me that I could not see over the White Mountains and into Rohan.”

Aefre was looking up at the walls and the balcony above the Princess’s. She nodded once. “It is quite lovely.”

Lothiriel was standing by the small table, where Aefre left the tea tray. She picked up an ornate container set next to the teapot. “What is this?”

Quickly, Aefre was at her side and removed it from her fingers. “It is a gift for you, however I would ask you wait to open it as of yet.” She reached within the recesses of her dress and pulled forth a velvet bag. “I did come for another reason.” She pulled the drawstring open and poured out several ornate hairpins. “In Rohan, it is custom for the bride to wear her hair up. It is held secure with many pins. Many are family heirlooms, loaned and passed down from generation to generation.” She held the small pieces of jewelry out to the young woman. “These are a gift from me, Lýðrest, Elfhelm’s wife, Éowyn, and Líðe, Erkenbrand’s wife. “Traditionally, the bride leaves her hair up and her new husband takes it down. If he accidentally pulls a hair, he is to give the pin to his wife until he is finished.”

“Does that mean anything special?”

“Aye.” Aefre smiled. “It signifies how many children you will have. The men of Rohan,” she whispered, “are not to know of this until their brides tell them.” She looked back out the balcony again before heading towards the door. “If Éomer allows you to remove his wedding cloak tomorrow evening, be very gentle and treat it with respect. A Rider’s cloak is a precious thing in Rohan, especially first cloaks and wedding cloaks. This particular cloak belonged to his uncle, the former king. It is dear to him.” Aefre dipped her head in curtsey. “My Queen,” the Rohirrim noblewoman began hesitantly, “I realize you have no mother and while I suspect you have spoken to your sister-in-laws or your serving woman, if you have any questions, any fears-”

“It will sting, I will feel torn asunder, it will fade quickly, I will love it, I will hate it, it is something I will learn to endure, I can plan menus and such things while he sweats and grunts, it will be my bane, my joy, keep moving, talk dirty to him, do not talk to him at all, enjoy him as he will be enjoying me…” Lothiriel looked up expectantly. “Did I cover it?”

Aefre’s shoulders were shaking in mirth. “The greatest fear is the unknown. And I think perhaps you have had too much advice. So I will give you none.” Aefre took her by the hands. “Save to let Éomer lead and guide you tomorrow night.”

“But, what if I do something wrong, what if I don’t-”

“Be patient.” Aefre smiled gently. “He does not expect you to know how to please him. He will teach you. That will take time and that will not happen in one night.” She patted her on the knee. “My sister-in-law, Beornia, had to get her husband drunk to get him to return to her bed after the birth of their first son. I thought I would have to do the same to Gamling; however, I caught him in the midst of a rather erotic dream and finished the job for him before he could set me off. Now,” and with this, she rose, “does that sound like something a woman must endure?”

Lothiriel was giggling. “No. Oh, Lady Aefre,” her giggles erupted into intense laughter, “I will never be able to look your husband in the eye again!”

“If I can, you can. Now, I will bring you hot water and real tea if you like, so do not get ready for bed yet.” She paused before opening it. “I would not let anyone else through this door tonight. There are always pre-marital shenanigans going on.”

Aefre let herself out of the room and glided down the hallway, nodding to the guards, until she reached the stairwell. Once out of eyesight of the posted soldiers, she raised her skirts to a level her husband would appreciate and tore up the stairs to the generous apartment assigned to her and Gamling. Once inside, the receiving room was crowded with Rohirrim, Éomer sitting in a corner, dejectedly. 

“This is the most boring bachelor party, ever!” he groused to himself.

“It will get better, sire.” Gamling overheard and muttered back at him, while heading out to the balcony.

“Well?” Éowyn had jostled herself to the front of the small crowd. “Well?”

“She’s thrown her maidservant out, I have given her our gift and explained their significance.”

“Did you give her the tiara?” Éomer was clearly pouting. “I would rather given it to her, but I am not allowed to have a moment’s peace with her!”

“Yes, I have given it to her, but I told her not to open it yet.”

“Why not?”

Gamling chose that moment to reenter the room. He had a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. “Guards?”

“Plenty. They are spaced at twenty pace intervals. There is one close to her door. We will have to make sure he is kept distracted.”

“What is going on here?” Éomer was now standing with the group, a wine goblet in one hand. He pointed to the rope with the other. “Why do you have rope?”

“Do you want to kiss your bride before tomorrow?”

“Aye but-”

“Would you like to give her Aunt Elfhild’s diadem?”

“Well of course, but-”

“Well then, Sire,” Gamling motioned to the balcony, “I suggest you hurry. She is a woman and I suspect she will open the lid sooner than later.”

“Are you saying-” Éomer was moving quickly in the direction of the balcony. 

“Our balcony, Sire,” Aefre had a calm about her most women were envious of, “is right over the princess’s balcony. Hers is, of course, larger, so you should not have to swing into it like some wild forest ape-ling.”

Éomer realized his Marshals grins were positively devious. And their wives smiles were simply… evil.

*** 

Lothiriel brought the lamp and set it on the table next to the box Aefre left. There were carvings of horses rearing and running, the detail was exquisite. So wrapped up in the beauty of the box, she didn’t hear the swooshing or the gentle plop of the length of a rope as it hit the patio of her balcony.

*** 

“Are you sure about this?” Éomer sat on the balcony’s edge, feet dangling. “What if you drop me? That will be damned difficult to explain to Lothiriel’s family.”

All three Marshals, as well as Hæfern, Faramir and Elessar held one end of the rope, anchoring it securely. “I am prepared to run if you fall,” Elessar smirked. He nodded to Elfhelm, who held the rope in front of him. “I will help out a fellow king and truly understand your difficulty, Éomer of Rohan, but I will not take the blame for this!” 

“The things you get me into!” Faramir whispered to Éowyn.

“If you want to sleep with me in the bed tonight-”

“That,” Faramir raised one hand and pointed at his wife, “is an empty threat!” Continuing to hold the rope with the one hand, he leaned over and kissed her. “And you know it!” Éowyn crossed her arms and tried to look stern. Faramir flicked her nose with his finger. “I am impervious to your cross looks. They do not affect me.”

“Ready?” Upon the signal, Éomer went over the side of the balcony and disappeared into the dark.

*** 

Lothiriel picked up the box, tracing the outline of the lid with the tip of her finger. “Aefre said to wait, however she did not say how long.”

“Probably until I arrive, princess.”

Lothiriel jumped, almost dropping the precious gift she held in her hands. Just in time, she clutched it protectively to her chest. “Éomer?”

“You were expecting someone else?” He was smiling and reached for the box. She handed it to him readily but was obviously confused when he took it and set it back on the table. He took her gently by the shoulders.

“Éomer, what are you doing?” 

“Something I wanted to do the moment I got off my horse when I arrived.”

His head dipped…

*** 

Elfhelm and Lýðrest came down the hallway, arguing in not so semi-hushed tones.

“I tell you, sweetling, I have it right.” Elfhelm was attempting to be cajoling and failing badly.

“And I am telling you, you do not!” They stopped in front of the guard closest to the Princess’s door. “Kind sir, perhaps you could help us?” 

The guard recognized Marshal Elfhelm and his wife. For some reason, in their strange, guttural language, the Rohirrim always appeared to be arguing more than anything else. Especially these two. “Ma’am?”

***

Lothiriel looked over her husband-to-be’s shoulder. “What is that commotion?”

Éomer paused before smiling. “That would be a few Rohirrim showing us the lengths they will go to, to ensure our privacy.” His eyes dropped and lingered over her lips. “Now, where was I?”

*** 

“My husband,” Lýðrest gestured to Elfhelm, who was now smirking at the ceiling “has the steps to the dance we danced at last night’s banquet all wrong. As chances are we will be doing it again at the wedding, would you possibly show him how it is done?” She held her arms out expectantly.

“Uhm… ma’am I have no idea which dance you are talking about…”

It didn’t matter because before he could get the words out of his mouth, she grabbed him and whisked him down the hall…

*** 

Éomer hovered over his soon-to-be bride. He could smell her perfume and an underlying husky scent, he recognized as desire. It took every ounce of self control he had to keep from crushing her to him, answer his body’s call to take her there, now, on the floor, so he forced himself to hesitate. He traced the tip of her nose with his.

Lothiriel responded by rising on her toes and pressing her lips to his. She tasted of honey.

His arms lashed around her like whipcords, pulling her into him, into his very being. When he deepened the kiss, she willingly opened her mouth…

*** 

“Do you hear anything?” Erkenbrand asked, leaning over the side as far as possible.

“Not a thing,” Faramir whispered. “Should someone go down and check on them?”

“NO!” The women all hissed in unison.

*** 

Éomer’s body immediately came to life, his hands traveling down the many buttons on the back of her dress to her derriere. He cupped her to him, into him, his own body screaming…

…screaming…

With all the self-control he could muster, he pulled away, breaking the kiss, the contact. In the back of his mind, he was planning a long, long bath this evening with a bottle of unscented lotion.

“You stopped.”

He exhaled regretfully. “Aye. If I did not I would not be able to and I would not dishonor you before your country’s rituals are completed.”

In the low light, her eyes glittered like jewels. “I would not stop you. According to your people, I am already your wife.” She took a step back. “Now you think I am wanton.”

Éomer began to chuckle. “Oh no. Not wanton.” He drew a finger down the side of her breast, tracing the shape in a lazy circle, causing her to gasp. “My wife and horney, yes. Wanton? Not quite. Not yet.” With painstaking precision, he ran his hand down her waist and back behind as if to cup her. Instead, he drew his hand up and reached behind her. “I have a gift for you.” He brought around the carved chest. “It is customary for the bride and groom to give each other gifts at their wedding.”

“I remember,” Lothiriel breathed. “At Gamling and Aefre’s wedding. She gave him a valuable family heirloom and he gave her a knife.” She knotted her brow in consternation. “At first I thought it strange he would give her a weapon, but after he explained the reasoning behind it, I thought it quite… well…”

“Gamling and Aefre are cut from a similar cloth,” Éomer finished for her. “They are a good match. For them, it was the perfect exchange.” He tenderly opened the lid. “This belonged to my Aunt Elfhild, the last Queen of Rohan. It would please me if you wore it tomorrow.”

With great reverence, Lothiriel withdrew the coronet. “Oh, Éomer. It is beautiful!” She ran to the mirror and set it upon her head. “And the horses are exquisite!”

“I hope you like horses, because a great deal of your jewelry will have horses etched in it or are in the shape of,” he smiled.

“Not to mention my life will be surrounded by them!” She continued admire the circlet, turning her head back and forth. “Oh Éomer! This is simply beautiful!” She turned and flung herself in his arms…

***   
The guard was still trying to catch his breath. That wretched Rohirrim’s wife had insisted they dance up and down the hall and much to the amusement of his fellow guards, forced him to dance with her husband, to make sure the poor, unfortunate, obviously hen-pecked horselord had it right! Small wonder the men rode off and escaped on their horses so often! Married to one of those… horselady women, even he would ride far, far away as well! He would never live this down! Needless to say, he was caught completely off guard when the Lady Éowyn and Queen Arwen stopped in front of him on their way to Ilúvatar knows whose chambers to ask him his opinion on their jewelry…

*** 

“Must you go?” Lothiriel was wrapped back up in Éomer’s embrace. “You have been here but a little while.”

“If I stay, I will finish what I have started and they will find me in your bed in the morning.” He lifted her up on the table in front of the mirror and moved aggressively between her legs. This time when he kissed her, it was thorough, possessive, more of a battle than before. Lothiriel’s lips were swollen and slightly bruised. His hands stroked her back before stepping away. “Sleep well tonight princess, for you will get little sleep tomorrow.” He stepped out onto the balcony, whistling above him. Apparently receiving a signal of sorts, he took his end of the rope to the wall and proceeded to climb up.

Lothiriel slid down from the table, unsure if her legs would hold her up. It was at the point she realized Éomer had unbuttoned the back of her gown all the way down to the small of her back.

***

“Great Béma, Éomer!” Gamling was sitting on the floor, panting. “If you do anything like this again, you have got to lose some weight!” He pulled the gloves off his hands; grateful he had the foresight to put them on and inspected them for damage. “Your arse must be as large as Thelielveril’s!”

“Hey!” Hæfern protested loudly, “I happen to like that arse!”

The three marshals gagged and Faramir turned green. Elessar looked pained at the pronouncement. 

“What?” Hæfern was completely put out. “Ugly women have pussys too!” He was now looking back and forth at a room full of horrified Rohirrim and an appalled elleth. “The lamps are out! She can cook!”

“Oh,” Erkenbrand visibly relaxed. “If she can cook, then that is a different matter entirely!”

“And the lamps turned off. That would save on burlap bags,” Elfhelm sighed with relief. 

“I still do not wish to go there!” Gamling whispered, having gone back to inspecting his hands.

“Why, oh why, do my men insist on telling me things I do not wish to know?” Éomer moaned, his head between his hands.

***

Lothiriel and Éomer’s wedding day dawned bright and clear. Unlike Gamling’s wedding day, Éomer was not hung over or begging for nasty tea to make him purge his stomach. 

Every married horselord celebrated the day wearing his own wedding cloak. If the lords and ladies of Dol Amroth were surprised at the normally plainly clothed Rohirrim unusual and opulent finery, they had enough courtly manners to not gawk.

Openly. These Horselords and their ladies might not have much in lavish splendor but what they wore, they wore proudly.

Lothiriel’s hair was done up in twisted braids, bright jeweled pins glittering in the coils and Elfhild’s tiara shining brightly at the base. For her gift, she gave Éomer a dark blue water diamond, signifying the strength of the sea would not hold back the love and esteem she felt for her husband. Éomer presented her with his battle sword, that which had seen use and would be used to protect her as well.

“Éomer,” she whispered, “this is a bit heavy for me.”

“You just have to swing it.” He thought for a moment. “Away from me. Do not swing it in my direction. On second thought, do not swing it at all. When we are finished, I will put it up.”

“Good.”

Aefre was tearing up, as were most of the women there, when Elessar, who as the highest-ranking male in the hall was officiating, pronounced them man and wife. Gamling pulled her close and in putting his arm around her, wrapped her in his cloak.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing everyone that I would wrap you in my cloak and marry you again and again.” The kiss was sweet and it was not long before the other Horselords were doing the same. 

In the back of the hall, Hæfern stood next to Thelielveril, watching her cry. He leaned over. “When you come to Rohan, would you consider abiding with me?”

“No one has asked me to go to Rohan,” she replied tearfully. 

It took a moment for Hæfern to digest that bit of information. “ I am asking you,” he stated solemnly. 

“Oh.” Thelielveril’s eyes were huge. In the back of her mind, she remembered when Lady Aefre, in a fit of anger, had offered to find a wild thing for her bed, as she so obviously needed it. In a sense, she had done just that, when the King of Rohan sent this graying horselord to teach her mistress to ride. “I am a horrible horsewoman.”

“I taught you to ride the Mearas; I will teach you to ride a bucking stallion!” he winked.

It did not take her but a moment. “Yes. Yes, I will go with you.”

At that point, he kissed her. Thelielveril had no idea how long the kiss went on, but apparently many noticed it.

“Thelielveril, I see you wrapped in Hæfern’s cloak.” Lothiriel’s voice rang over the crowd.

“Thelielveril, I see you wrapped in Hæfern’s cloak,” Éomer added.

One by one, begun by the HorseLords and continued by the nobles of Dol Amroth, everyone proclaimed they saw Thelielveril wrapped in Hæfern’s cloak.

And that is the story of how Hæfern and Thelielveril married.

***   
tbc  
***


	14. 13 - To Ride the Maeras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This is a WEDDING NIGHT! Got it? A WEDDING NIGHT! If that doesn't excite you, move along... if it does? Bring your mop....

****

#  LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

****

## Chapter 13 

****

### To Ride the Mearas. 

“Do you think your maidservant and my captain were trying to steal our thunder?” Éomer dropped the bar and after thinking about the things he’d done to his friends on their wedding nights, he propped the nearest chair under the latch and eyeballed the giant armoire against the wall, as if to gauge his ability to drag it to the door.

“No.” Lothiriel was fidgeting, nervous. “I knew the two were spending time together, but I did not know that they were serious.” A blaze was crackling merrily in the fireplace, making the chamber uncommonly warm and many candles were lit in the bedchamber. Butterflies were dancing merrily in the pit of her stomach. “I am happy for her. I did not ask her to come to Rohan with me; I did not think she wished to go, but I am glad she will be there now.”

Éomer was very aware his bride was bundle of nerves. When he was younger, he always felt that virgins… well… virgins took wooing and time. Back when he was younger, time was not something he took much notice of. Tonight, however, he intended to cherish every second.

There was a decanter of wine and he poured both of them a glass. “Please sit by your mirror,” he pointed, glass in hand. “I would like to take down your hair.”

His wife’s eyes flitted everywhere as she sat into the chair. With infinite patience, he waited until she settled down, before handing her glass. “Afraid?”

Lothiriel sipped her wine. “No. Just nervous.” She took another sip. “They tell me it will sting, but if I relax, it is fleeting.” She watched as Éomer gently lifted and then wove the diadem above her braids. He took it to its carved carrier and returned to her side. Noticing her glass was already empty, he took it from her and set it down out of reach before beginning on the pins in her hair. 

“May I have another glass?”

“No.” He pulled out the first pin, taking great care to give each one to her. “Relaxed is a good thing. Limp is not. I want to ensure you not only enjoy tonight, but that you remember it.”

Lothiriel was staring down at her hands, watching the pins pile up in them. “First time jitters.” She winced as she felt a hair tug. “Actually, it is the naked part.” She set the pins on the table and took the one he handed her, with a single hair caught in the clasp.

_One._

Éomer leaned over, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“But, of course!” Lothiriel grinned.

Éomer’s lips grazed her ear. “I will be naked, too.” His tongue flicked the rim of her ear and he felt her shudder. He returned to her hair, taking down the intricately weaved braids…

_Two…_

His fingers dragged through the one side before beginning on the other.

_… three… four…_

“I remember the first time I mounted a pony.” Lothiriel’s eyes were closed, the wine and the feel of his fingers through the dark locks of hair, lulling her into a tranquil state. “I no sooner became settled when it took off and left me on my butt in the dust.” She began to chuckle at the thought of the sight of a young Éomer…

_…five…_

…infuriated by a mere pony bucking him from the saddle. “I was most embarrassed. I was the son of one of Rohan’s greatest captains, the nephew of the king, and a pony left me in the dust.”

“Poor thing,” Lothiriel murmured. “What did you do?”

Éomer’s lips were now at her other ear. “I got back on. The first time sitting on the saddle was the scariest. After that, I knew what to expect.” By now, the braids were down, the pins were out and Éomer was running his fingers through her hair, weighing the sensation of the heavy silken tresses fall between calloused fingers. “Please do not be afraid of me. I will not hurt you. Ever.”

Emboldened by the wine, Lothiriel pulled her hair to the side, exposing her neck and the small buttons at the back of her dress. “I am not afraid of you, only of what I have not experienced. If you would undo my dress, I would climb into your saddle the first time.”

She didn’t hear the sharp intake of his breath and like the evening before, his hands were like air. When the back of her dress was undone, he nudged her to stand. As she turned, he took her fully in his arms, his hands caressing her back, before his mouth descended on her. By comparison, the previous night kisses had been tender, restrained, controlled.

This kiss was not. 

At that moment, Lothiriel realized what ‘being devoured’ meant.

*** 

Three horselords bent over the rail, elaborate green cloaks and boots were all that were visible. Gamling was using the toe of his left boot to scratch his ankle through his right.

“Gamling? What are you doing?”

Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and Gamling looked over their shoulders as if choreographed. “We are going to serenade them.”

“Like Mordor, you will!” Aefre nodded to her counterparts and the three women drew them away.

“’Tis unfair, Aefre!” Gamling protested. “He ruined our wedding night!”

Aefre pulled him by the hands towards their bedchambers. She maneuvered him backwards until his knees hit the bed. As he sank down, she followed him up, pulling up her skirts unmindful of the small crowd who watched and mounted him as only a Rider could. “The only thing that was ruined on our wedding night, were your new boots which you threw at the king. As I recall, you hit him in the head with them, knocking him out.” She allowed her hands to stroke upwards over his chest, to his arms, coaxing them over his head. “Faramir had to drag him from the garden.”

Gamling was now lying prone on the bed, uncaring that she not only straddled him, but that she held his wrists. His attention was riveted elsewhere. “Aefre? Did you know there are mirrors in the canopy of this bed?”

“You are just now noticing that, my darling bonehead?” Aefre kissed him at his adam’s apple.

“Well, it is dark when we retire. Also, I have been on top as of late.” 

“Yes, I know. That is why I am on top now.”

He enjoyed her attentions for a moment. Her nose traced its way to the small, tender spot beneath his earlobe. “Aefre? What are you doing?”

“Distracting you.”

“Oh.” She continued worrying the tender spot that made him wiggle… well, it made her wiggle too. “Aefre!” The whisper was staged. “We still have company.”

Aefre continued her nuzzling. “Good night. We are occupied.” 

Erkenbrand and his wife were already heading out the door; however, Elfhelm was fascinated by what he was watching. “I do not know about that. You have tied him up rather securely and I am interested in watching how this… OW… OOOWWWWW!” Elfhelm’s wife had him firmly by the ear and was pulling him towards the door. “All right, all right already. Can I tie you up like that? OOOWWWWW! Fine. Would you like to tie me up? I will let you tie me up…” Even after the door was closed, Elfhelm’s protests could still be heard down the hall. 

Aefre got up long enough to drop the bar on their door. She slowly sashayed back towards the bed, unlacing the ties on her dress and stepping out of it as she returned to the bed, so that she was completely nude by the time she reached the bed. 

“Aefre.” Gamling was pulling at the silken scarves that held him securely to the elaborate bed. “I am really tied to the headboard of this bed.”

“Yes. I know. I tied you, remember?” She began to pull on his boots.

“No. I do not recall you tying me to the bed. You were distracting me rather well.” He tried a different tactic. “Why am I tied to the bed?”

Both of his boots hit the floor with a very audible thud. “You tied me up on our wedding night.” Aefre climbed back on the bed, running her hands up his legs, teasing the rather impressive bulge in his trousers before resettling on him again. She gently grazed her hands under his tunic and began to play with his nipples. “I thought now might be a good time for pay back.”

_***YES! GO ME!!!!!***_

***

Lothiriel found herself wrapped in the heat of a kiss that took her very breath. Éomer released her long enough to inhale. “Béma! Ah! Béma! You are so beautiful!” This time, when he kissed her, she kissed him back, finding his bottom lip and sucking on it. It dawned on her that his hands were down the inside of the back of her dress, her cheeks cupped in the power of his embrace. He lifted her, holding her to him and turned. When he set her down, he sat down on the small ottoman she just rose from.

He held her gently by the wrists, as he rained kisses into her abdomen, inhaling her, her scent. This close, he could smell her perfume, the muskiness of her need, her want. Gently, he turned her left wrist, lips pressed to it. He licked, tasted the rapid pulse that raced so closely to the skin.

There were buttons… rows and rows of tiny seed pearl buttons and Lothiriel moved to release them from their clasps.

“No,” he whispered. “The moment I saw them, I fantasized about this.” He set his teeth to the first one, gently loosening them from their fasteners. As each millimeter of skin was exposed, he kissed it, worried with it. Lothiriel was weak in the knees at the deliberateness of his mouth. Several times, he nipped her, gently, the scrape of his teeth, his beard, against very sensitive skin, making her hot, sweat in all the clothing she wore. For some time, she wove her hands through his long hair, reveling in the thickness, the softness of it. In the weeks to come, in the silence of her thoughts, she would dream of children, borne of her body with this silky, blonde hair…

As Éomer continued to work on her wrists, she kicked off her shoes beneath her dress, the feel of the cool air on her exposed skin only making her hotter. She was hardly aware he was pulling on the sleeves of her gown. Her wedding dress fell, pooled at her feet. The moment the breeze caressed her, her husband’s hands slipped around her waist, drawing her closer. His mouth was sweltering, blistering hot, his tongue delving into the crevice of her belly, whispering against her flesh...

“Ah… léoflic…swá léoflic…”

_so beautiful…_

She held him by the head, enjoying the attention, not caring that that which made her most nervous, did not matter at this very moment. “Éomer, I am cold.”

Gazing, worshipping, adoring eyes slowly drifted upward, Éomer obviously cherishing every inch of skin. His eyes stopped at her breasts. “Yes. You are cold.”

Self-consciously, she attempted to cover herself. “I think it very unfair that I am naked and you are not.” Lothiriel bit her lip, something Éomer at the moment found very endearing. 

“Then, we shall remedy that.” He stood up, now towering over her and took her hands in his. “I would appreciate your assistance.” 

Lothiriel didn’t need to be asked twice. In addition to Aefre, Lataie had stolen to her chamber two nights before, offering advice. She warned Lotti not to be passive, not to just lie there. He would enjoy her; she might as well enjoy him back! She made quick work of his cloak, taking great care to fold it and carefully lay it over the ottoman. She briskly removed his sword belt and tunic; Éomer was toeing off his boots, when she stopped, lingered over the hard planes of his chest. She was mesmerized, beguiled by the hard expanse of it, the ribbed abdomen. She ran the palms of her hands over the crisp, short hair, before imitating his kisses along his ribs.

The sheer innocence of her actions and her desire put Éomer over the edge. He had planned to have her remove all of his clothing, but he simply could no longer wait. He impatiently unlaced his trousers and with a single shove, pushed them off and kicked them away. With one swift movement, he picked her up in his arms. “Now, I am cold!’ He took her and placed her gently on the turned down bed before crawling up and over her. He placed a leg between hers and kneed them apart. Lothiriel braced herself for the assault her maid and sister-in-laws had told her should follow.

It didn’t come.

Éomer was looking at her, much like a pilgrim at a shrine. He took her in, drank her in, in full, all of her. He sat back on his knees, his hands running slowly from her knees to her hips. "If I could ask Béma one thing, it would be to stop the moon. Stop the moon and make this night and your beauty last forever." He moved up over her. “Ic gád ðu.” He kissed her once more before moving down to her earlobe. “Your perfume tastes funny.” Lothiriel smacked him and went into uncontrollable giggles. Her hand moved southward, hoping to embrace that which would assault her. Éomer caught her hand and moved it to his shoulder. “No. Not yet.”

“But-“

“Your touch would be the ending of me and I would have you enjoy this night.” He laid a finger over her protests. “Later, but for now, be patient.” He continued to move downward. “Ah, now these are too sweet to pass up…” His mouth clamped on a very erect nipple.

Lothiriel reared, the groan most likely audible to the balcony above had the doors been open and had the occupants upstairs not been immersed in playing their own love games. 

He sucked… suckled… tugged at her… making her head spin at the sensations. She wasn’t aware her legs were now locked around his waist. Just when she didn’t think she could handle much more…

… he switched breasts.

Éomer suspected at that point, his bride might be a soprano.

Eventually moving slowly, gently, taking his time, he continued to move downward to the very juncture of her thighs, to that which made her female. He nipped her, using his arms and shoulders to coax her to open. He could see her pulse throbbing swiftly at the shallowest point of her inner thigh. As he laid his head on her upper leg, he reached under and then over her stomach, somehow instinctively knowing what would happen next.

He slid a solitary finger down between her lips, testing the waters, testing her reaction. 

“…swá geglédan swá bestíeman…”

The reception he got was better than he expected. 

She jumped and he pressed her to the bed. Her fists grabbed the sheets and he noticed her knuckles were white. “Lothiriel,” he whispered, “Relax. I will not hurt you.”

“I know.” It was whispered, breathless.

He slid in one finger. _Þíhte… þíhte…_ She was tight, oh Béma, _swá þíhte,_ so tight and Éomer concentrated on her thigh so she wouldn’t see him so deep in thought. For several minutes, he sucked at her pulse point, at the same time sliding his solitary finger deep into her very hot and wet passage. He realized once embedded, he was not going to last long, so he redirected his attack. He waited until her breathing returned to some semblance of normalcy, when he shifted, slid in two fingers and covered her very essence with his mouth.

At that point, Éomer realized without a shadow of a doubt, his wife was a soprano.

She bucked up, smacking Éomer in the nose. He held on, pressing upwards with his fingers, finding a hard inner knot that he stroked gently. He controlled her rhythm, aided and abetted that cadence, listened to the crooning, nonsense syllables she made. When her breathing hitched…

… he stopped.

She screamed in frustration, her fists still gripping the sheets. Her knees pulled in tight around his head.

He started again.

Again, he stroked, he controlled, rebuilt every angry pulsating point within her and just as she reached the peak of the mountain…

… he stopped.

By the time he had done this the fourth time, the names she was calling were so lurid, so….

_“Please! You sadist… please…”_

… he vaguely wondered how much time she was spending with Aefre.

The last time, he brought her up, slowly to the peak. Just as she was about to tip, fall over the edge, he raised up and throwing her legs over his elbows, thrust in full, settling to the hilt.

She gasped, eyes bolted open, Before she could exhale, he pulled back, sliding his fingers between their bodies, finding the spot he had paid so much attention to his with his mouth, He settled on his knees, pulling her to him and reestablished the rhythm, leaning over. “Breathe, sweetheart… ápyffan. It is over. That is the worst.” He waited for her body to relax, knowing that the moment she found it…

She exploded. Her back arched, the involuntary convulsion sending her over and Éomer watched in satisfaction. He waited patiently, for her breathing to return to normal. Only when she opened her eyes to look at him, did he begin to move, slowly at first before speeding up. His wife pulled her knees up, pulling him deeper, to her, arms wrapped around his head, to listen to his ragged breathing in her ear. She began to build again, openly basking in the feel of him, the sheer weight and size.

“Do you know how good you feel to me?” It was whispered in her ear, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Do you want to know?”

“Please.” She was close, so close…

He whispered in Rohirrim; some of the words, she knew, some she didn’t and she didn’t care… just the feel of his breath in her ear…the very sensuousness of the foreign language whispered so luridly…

“Léoflic geglédan swá geglédan swá, bestíeman…”

_…beautiful, hot so hot so wet…_

“…Þíhte gelíce sum, níðgripe, léoflic, ðut þyncan mé gelíce sum gloe geglófed, forþgesceaft ac mé, mé ic gád…” 

_…I want.._

“…tó nihtwacu ðu, ic gád ðu tó handhrine mé …”

_…I want you to touch me…_

With this he reared up, riding, riding her. He slid his hands beneath her, grabbing hold of her cheeks. He rolled over, bringing her with him, switching places. Once settled, he ran his hands up her arms, grasping her hands. He placed her hands on him; she found those flat, male discs that made sparks shoot behind his eyes.

“…Géa! Handhrine mé handhrine mé…”

_…Yes! Touch me…_

“…Ic gád tó nihtwacu ðu…”

_… I want to watch you…_

“… plegan æt úresylfum, úre léawfinger delfan, íeðnes úresylfum, Ic gád ðu tó nihtwacu mé…”

_…I want you to watch me…_

“… íeðnes mé ic gád tó lafian, ðu, cystan exon uppan ðu…”

They rolled again, her legs now high on his arms, ankles on his shoulders…

_This is what it is like…_

“Ic gád tó áfindan ðu…”

_…I want to feel you…_

“…clæppan, áfindan ðu ábifian…”

_This is what it is like to be ridden…_

“…Geglédan gefǽmne…”

_…hot woman…_

“…ǽghwilc ísenóre …”

_Isenóre!_

“MINE!”

At the word mine, she came a second time, her legs and arms locked around his waist, holding him close, crying out. 

Éomer followed her, no longer willing or able to hold back. For what seemed forever, their worlds rocked simultaneously, into that very abyss of nothingness and gasping for air.

Time stood still, while both of them caught their breath. Eventually, Éomer released her legs and slipped from her body, missing her heat and the feel of her immediately. He looked down at her, flushed, still breathing heavily and he started to move from above her.

“NO!” Lothiriel squirmed, attempting to stay beneath him. “Do not go.”

“I am not going anywhere, Princess.” He leaned over and nuzzled her ear. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Not enough to think twice about. It was over quickly and felt good before and after.” She turned her face to kiss him, her nostrils flaring. She kissed him again, her tongue licking her lips. “Strange…”

“What?”

“You did not have that taste before.”

Éomer chuckled. “That would be you, you are tasting.” He kissed her again, this time, devouring her, overwhelming her again with sheer passion. He pressed his forehead against hers. “Do you like it?”

She shrugged. “Tastes like tuna.” Éomer burst out laughing. “I am wondering, my Lord, how you taste?”

“Oh, we can arrange that, I am sure.”

*** 

Many, many hours later, before the dawn, Lothiriel lay curled up next to her sleeping husband, tucked under his arm. Her hand was resting on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the beating of his heart. Not really paying attention, her hand drifted slowly down, teasing crested planes. It was caught in a tender vice and placed deliberately back in its originally resting place on his torso.

“Do not. It will fall off.”

“I do not think so.”

She could sense his smirk. “I married a wanton thing.”

*** 

Éomer was up at the sunrise. He had been an early riser since his teen years, when his rider training began. He quietly padded into the bath chamber; glad to see there was a separate, servant’s entrance and that the tub was quite large. He found a clean cloth and a pitcher of water that was still warm. He cleaned the remnants of the previous night’s revelry from his body before returning to the bedroom.

There was a rattling at the door, the chair he propped against it bouncing around. He grabbed his trousers and ran to it. “Who is it?” he whispered, throwing one leg through the material and missing.

“I am Lythean, one of the servants. I have brought juice and Rohirrim caffe.” He heard the clicking of fine china. “I can leave it here at the door.”

“No, no, wait…” Finally, he got his leggings on and he pulled the chair aside, opening it a hair. Sure enough, a young maidservant, with wide, anxious eyes stood with the tray. “Rohirrim caffe?”

“Aye.”

“Béma bless you!” He threw the door open and took the tray from her. “Could you arrange the bath in the Princess’s bath chamber to be filled?”

“Yes. Right away, my lord.” She curtsied quickly and backed away.

Éomer took the tray to the nearest table and poured himself a cup, musing on drinking from something too delicate and fine for his tastes. But the caffe was brewed perfectly and he inhaled deeply from the steam.

He watched as Lothiriel flipped over and mumbled to herself, laying much like a rag doll who had been tossed about the bed rather shamelessly. He smiled rakishly, thinking he had done just that. He set the cup down and grabbed his cloak, throwing it over her…

_As she should be…_

He poked around the room, noticing his things had been placed in a wardrobe. Nodding to himself, he refilled his cup and stepped out on the balcony.

The sun was coming up over the White Mountains, the morning chill making him wish he had more clothes on. The city below was starting to stir and it dawned on him, he was supposed to hang the sheet from the railing. This bothered him. He knew there were ‘traditions’ and ‘rituals’ but surely, there was a better way to proclaim to the people of Dol Amroth that he accepted her as his bride and wife. What business was it of theirs if she were virgin or not?

Something plopped in his hair and he brushed at it, granules of dirt falling gently to the stone floor. Another bit of dirt sprinkled around him like rain and he looked up to see his Marshal’s wife laughing down at him, dusting him with dirt from a potted plant. 

She was nude.

Granted he couldn’t see anything because of the height of the railing and the fact she was standing behind a large railing planter, but by Béma, she was nude and dropping dirt on him and laughing about it. 

“I should tell your husband that you are out and about, cavorting naked, Lady Aefre!” He shook his finger at her for good measure.

“And that would accomplish what?” Gamling joined her, drinking from an equally expensive and delicate cup. He too, appeared to be nude. Or possibly wearing leggings, but Éomer rather doubted it. “She does what she pleases.”

“I expected to be serenaded or at the very least rousted from bed in a most disgusting manner, much earlier.” Éomer enjoyed the last of his cup. “Although, I thank you for not.”

“He was tied up,” Aefre smiled.

“Gagged too.” The two not so newlyweds pointed at each other.

“Do I need to know this?”

“Our bed has mirrors in the top, Éomer.”

“Really?” Éomer thought for a moment. “Mirrors?”

The two nodded enthusiastically.

“We need to talk. By the way, I am in a predicament.” He quickly let Aefre know the very tradition she scoffed at was indeed a tradition. “I do not wish to fly that sheet as Lothiriel is sleeping on it, but I need something to…” he spread his hands in supplication, “… well to fly.”

“I have just what you need, sire. Hold this, please,” he handed Aefre his cup before kissing her and then going into the room.

“Mirrors? Really?”

“Aye.”

Gamling returned. “Catch.”

Éomer set his cup down in time to catch the large folded tapestry. He unfolded it and grinned. “This is perfect!” He heard a sound from the bedchamber. “Good morning, princess. Did you sleep well?”

Lothiriel was wrapped in his cloak and she gingerly stepped barefoot onto the cold rock. “For what little you allowed me to rest.” But she was smiling. “Who are you talking to?” She looked up. “Ah. Good morning Lady Aefre and Marshal Gamling.”

“Just Gamling.”

Lothiriel nodded. She leaned into Éomer, whispering, “We need to hang the sheet, but there is not much blood.”

“I have something better. Ah. By the way, it appears Gamling and Aefre’s bed has mirrors in the canopy.”

“Really?” She tilted her head in thought. “Do you think-“

“Old man! Want to switch with us one night? We have a big bed and a big bathtub!” He yelled up. He then turned to Lothiriel. “They are filling the tub for us. I thought you might be a tad sore and would like to soak.”

“Aye, I am.”

“With me.”

“I am going to get sore again, aren’t I?”

“Maybe? Maybe not.”

More dirt flittered down on Éomer’s head, Aefre obviously in a good mood. “Are you done whispering? Certainly. We would be happy to switch rooms one night. Would you have me to leave the scarves?”

“Scarves?”

“I said Gamling was tied up! Really, Sire, do you not listen?”

Lothiriel was grinning and pulling the cloak around her tighter. “I would like to tie you up. You would not bounce around so when I finally taste you!”

“Oooh!” Éomer cooed appreciatively. “You do know what is good for the mare, is good for the stallion!” 

“I hope so.”

So wrapped up in themselves, they did not realize that the Marshal and his lady had returned to their bed, to do who knows what. It did not matter to young couple anyway as within five minutes, they were back in their bed…

… with the King of Rohan’s Royal Standard, flying from the balustrade. 

* _**tbc***_

_…léoflic geglédan swá geglédan swá bestíeman, þíhte gelíce sum, níðgripe, léoflic, ðut þyncan mé gelíce sum gloe geglófed, forþgesceaft ac mé, mé ic gád tó nihtwacu ðu, ic gád ðu tó handhrine mé …_

_…beautiful, hot so hot so wet, tight like a vice, beautiful, you fit me like a glove, made for me, me, I want to watch you, I want you to touch me…_

_…Géa! Handhrine mé handhrine mé, ic gád tó nihtwacu ðu plegan æt úresylfum, úre léawfinger delfan, íeðnes úresylfum, ic gád ðu tó nihtwacu mé, íeðnes mé ic gád tó lafian, ðu, cystan exon uppan ðu…_

_…Yes! Touch me touch me, I want to watch you play with yourself, your fingers delve, pleasure yourself, I want you to watch me, pleasure me, I want to bathe you, spend myself on you_

_Ic gád tó áfindan ðu clæppan, áfindan ðu ábifian_

_I want to feel you throb, feel you convulse…_

_…Geglédan gefǽmne ǽghwilc ísenóre …_

_…hot woman all mine…_


	15. 14 - Haleth Rising

****

LOVE! Rohirrim Style 

****

Chapter 14 

****

Haleth Rising 

If the servants thought it strange that the Rohirrim and their King, along with his new bride, played musical rooms and beds, they kept it to themselves. Many a shopkeeper in the nearby market did remark that the King of Rohan was apparently besotted with his bride, taking her from stall to stall and grinning like a mad man as she bought up long silken scarf after long silken scarf. Obviously, the Marshals of Rohan followed their liege’s lead as they allowed the same of their lady wives.

Five days came sooner than Imrahil would like. Too early in the morning, the Rohirrim muster was lining up in the courtyard, saddlebags and pack animals loaded in such an efficient manner. Éomer was darting from horse to horse, making sure each one was ready for travel, checking Firefoot and Nihtweard. 

“All is ready, sire,” Gamling whispered quietly. Éomer nodded and moved to the front of the line.

“Haleth!” Éomer’s voice rose over the din, over the bustling of the crowd. “Haleth! Son of Háma! Come here!”

From around the horses, around Riders and others, Haleth gingerly crept into the middle of the piazza. He was ready to ride, ready to return home. His borrowed cloak was fastened and his sword was secured at his back. “Sire?”

To one who did not know him, Éomer looked stern, almost angry. He was in full armor, his helmet, with its long horsetail, on his head, his feet apart. “You wear a Rider’s Cloak, yet you have not been raised.”

The chatter around now ceased, all eyes on the King and the young teen it looked as if he were about to chastise. Lothiriel started forward, as if to intervene, however a heavy hand rested on her shoulder. “’Tis a happy occasion, Lothiriel. An event rarely seen outside the Riddermark!” Elessar’s smile was wide. “Although I do not believe young Haleth realizes it yet. Watch.” 

The Marshals and Captains in Éomer’s éored were lining up behind him, an impressive show of Rohirric might. “It was a loan from Lady Aefre when I traveled,” Haleth explained, his eyes darting about cautiously. “It belonged to Lufien. I promised to give it back when I returned.” Haleth’s voice was almost apologetic. “It was so cold-“

“Aye. I remember well the conditions you traveled to Gondor in. Give me your sword.” Thinking he must have done something horribly wrong, Haleth sighed, reached behind him and pulled his sword free, handing the hilt to the king. Éomer took it, weighed it carefully in his hand before handing it to Gamling. “I took this sword from a boy. I will give it to a man, an Éorling; a true son of Rohan. Give me your cloak.”

Haleth’s shoulders drooped.

Whispering could be heard from those standing about the courtyard, not understanding what they were seeing and feeling sympathy for the boy as he removed the wrap and handed it to Éomer. The Rohirrim King then handed it to the one who loaned it to him – Aefre, who stood even with her husband. Even Imrahil’s brow was pinched in ire. Faramir stood next to him, pointing through the sea of horses. From the back of the courtyard, Éowyn walked calmly between the steeds, carrying a swath of green. She came to a stop behind her brother, a sparkling smile of pride beautifying her features. When he saw her and what she carried, Haleth’s jaw dropped and his eyes went wide.

“Kneel.” Haleth dropped to one knee, his head bowed as he concentrated on the stones beneath him. “For your work and knowledge of our land, for your accomplishments in the Riddermark, for your service this winter in your travels to Gondor, but mostly,” and here, Éomer grinned arrogantly, “for beating every Gondorian who challenged you to a horse race and making them Eat! Your! Rohirrim! Dust!” At this point, every Rohirrim raised a fist and saluted with three loud guttural grunts. “You have proven yourself a true son of Rohan; a clǽne yrfeweard a Éorlingas. Ástandan!” Haleth rose, a huge smile on his face. Éomer turned and took the precious green cloak Éowyn carried so reverently. He slung it around the young teen’s shoulders, fastening the clasp. “Normally,” he said very quietly, so only those nearby could hear, “First Rider cloaks are new, however it is my understanding that this belonged to your father and is precious to you. He would be proud.” Haleth was choked up and could not speak, so he nodded in affirmation. “You have made him proud, so wear it with honor.” Éomer leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Be careful who you wrap in it.”

“Yes sir.” Haleth was rubbing the fine wool gently between his thumb and forefinger.

After Haleth reattached his buckler, Gamling handed the sword back to Éomer. Again, he weighed it in his hand and handed it to Haleth. “I took this sword from a boy, but now I give it to a Éorling, to a Man of Rohan. Kneel.” Haleth sank again to one knee, head bowed.

It was very quiet.

Éomer looked at Gamling.

Gamling shrugged and mouthed _‘Just tell him.’_

Éomer leaned forward and whispered. “Psst. Haleth. This is where you swear fealty to Rohan and her people, that you will fight for her glory and protect her, that you will obey the king-“

“And sing and drink heartily at every feast,” Gamling added.

“And that you will clean his stables daily and shake the crumbs from his bed each morning because he still snacks there at night,” Éowyn finished.

At that, Haleth’s head shot up, a non-believing smirk resting at his mouth. “My Lady!” he hissed. “I might have been born a short time ago, but I was not born last night!”

Éomer burst out laughing, followed very quickly by his men and the women who heard Haleth’s outburst. As the laughter died down, Haleth offered up his sword and spoke loudly. “I am Rohirrim. I swear by my honor, that I give my fealty to Rohan; to uphold her security and her people. My sword belongs to Éomer Eadig, King of Rohan, to use as he sees fit and where needed for as long as I live.”

For the last time, Éomer took the sword Haleth offered up. He touched him on each shoulder blade. “So be it Haleth, son of Háma, Man of Rohan.” He handed the sword back to him. “Pretty good oath for such short notice, Haleth. Ástandan, Ástígend!”

As Haleth rose to his feet again, the Éorlings of Rohan cheered him, quickly followed by those who witnessed the rising of this young rider. Before he could return to his horse, Éomer clapped him on the shoulder, “Did you really leave Prince Faramir behind in a horse race?”

Haleth looked over both shoulders to make sure the prince was nowhere near. “Beat his arse.” He nodded to Éowyn. 

“Aye, he did.” Éowyn agreed. “Faramir said it was if the host of demons of Morgoth were chasing him. There was no catching him.”

Haleth gulped self-consciously and paled. No one noticed.

But Gamling.

Éomer motioned to Lothiriel, so he could help her into her saddle. “Mount up, Rider. Your first duty is to call up the éored!”

“Yes sir.” Haleth raced off, his newly won cloak billowing behind him. As he went by, each Rider clapped him on the shoulder, causing him to grin from ear to ear. He mounted up on Níðheard and settled into the familiar saddle. “RIDERS! HO! RIDERS! TO HOME! TO HEARTH!-“

“To Rohirrim women and our own beds!” Gamling leered at Aefre, as he gave her a hand up she did not really need.

“You are such a man!” she retorted.

“TO ROHAN! RIDERS! FORTH ÉORLINGAS!!!”

 

***

 

They had been out several days, the party moving slowly back through the plains of Lamedon. This time, Éomer did not complain about the slow going of the éored; instead he took great pleasure in spending time conversing with his new bride. Many times, his laughter would be heard ringing through the group, Lothiriel apparently sharpening her Rohirric skills on him.

It was discovered later that Hæfern had taught her a few saucy things that would have scandalized her family, had they known. The King and Queen of Gondor rode with them, as did Imrahil and members of their cavalry, but it was clear to all that Éomer preferred the company of his bride. 

Word of Haleth’s prowess at racing spurred other Gondorian knights to dare him. He beat them, easily, the swiftness of his horse was whispered about and few noticed that while his challengers wore full armor, Haleth wore only his cloak and clothing, making him much lighter to carry. And as was his wont, Haleth always pointed out for a horseman to check his mount’s hoof, or shoe, or that flank that appears tender…

Gamling watched with a careful eye. Faramir was correct. He rode as if demons nipped at his heels. So he watched and waited until one particularly lovely sunset, rather than join Aefre around the small cook fire she prepared, he sought out Haleth, who was alone, brushing down Níðheard. Gamling waited until the boy completed his task, checked his hooves and feed, making sure he was near grass and placed a fresh bucket of water within reach.

“Haleth. Come walk with me a ways.”

Haleth put his tack away in his saddlebags and joined Gamling’s side. They walked around the edge of the camp, in sight, but out of hearing. “I have not had chance to tell you how proud I am. You have done well. Your father would be proud.”

“Thank you.”

There was silence, somewhat uncomfortable as they continued walking. “Éowyn tells me while you stayed with them in Minas Tirith, you had trouble sleeping.” 

“Aye.”

Damn! The boy was proving to be as tight-lipped as the Marshal himself.

“When we go near Pelennor Fields, Aefre tells me I am a veritable bear in my sleep. It haunts me to the fiber of my being. It was a horrible, horrible day that devils me the closer I am to it. I keep the beauty of Minas Tirith in my heart and my mind’s eye because I desire to never see it again. I must wonder however,” and with this he stopped and looked directly at the teen, “what abhorrent thing you have seen that would bother you so?”

Haleth stared at his mentor and Gamling saw clearly that while the boy was still a boy, his eyes had taken on an ancient, haunted look. “You would think it silly,” he finally whispered and turned to continue walking.

Gamling resumed walking. “I have been around many summers. There are many things that long ago, I would consider silly or unfathomable. After what I saw at Pelennor Fields and at the Black Gate, I am less likely to question that which most would call silly.”

They continued to walk, Gamling sensing Haleth was searching deep for words, for something, anything to make sense of what was haunting him. Finally…

“When I was young, Da used to tell me of a town, a ghost town that only showed itself to vulnerable riders in trouble. It was filled with the souls of the damned and that anyone who partook their ales or enjoyed time with their women, was lost, their souls doomed forever. They would stay there forever, turned to evil.”

“Is that all he told you?”

“No.” It was now coming out in a rush. “He told me that if a rider’s heart were true and that he did not partake, that Béma would send a talisman to protect him until he could escape.”

“Ah.” Gamling nodded in understanding. “My da told me the same story, save he named the ghost town Witnung.”

They walked.

“Why would our da’s tell us such tales?”

“’Tis no tale, Haleth. I have been there.”

Haleth’s head jerked. “You have been there? When? How?”

There was a tree near by and Gamling sat, leaning against it motioning Haleth to join him. From his belt, he removed a small flask and uncorked it. He handed it to Haleth. It was a burning whiskey; much like that he had taken with him to keep his blood warm during his cold ride south. A wind blew now, the spring night beginning to cool.

“When I was just barely sixteen summers, I was sent on an errand. One of the settlements near our garrison was being harried by what was thought to be wolves. Their cattle and sheep were disappearing and the men had taken to putting all their horses in one stable, each taking turns to watch. We discovered it a group of sceaðan, very bold thieves indeed, and my father and the majority of his éored were in Aldburg for the rising of several captains, including Éomund, Éomer King’s father. I was sent by our captain to retrieve the éored. I left late in the afternoon, excited to be away from my sisters whose chatter bothered me to my teeth. Besides,” he elbowed Haleth in good-naturedly, “there was a young maid in Aldburg I fancied, so I was excited to get away.”

He took a swig from the flask, savoring the burn. “I had been gone but a few hours, when the storm blew down on me. There was lightning from sky to ground and it struck close to my horse’s hooves, spooking him to where he ran wild. I couldn’t control him. There was no shelter, no farms or caves to take refuge in. The sky grew black and I prayed to Béma he would bring to my destination safe.”

“After a particularly loud roar of thunder, I saw a walled settlement ahead. It appeared ramshackle and deserted, the gate hanging askew. I thought shelter was shelter, so I rode in. I heard nothing; I stabled my horse in the poor excuse for a stable. I wondered why I did not remember it. I had never seen the town, no one spoke of it.” He took another swig before passing the flask back to Haleth. “No self-respecting Rohirrim would allow their home and hearth to become run down, or dilapidated. But by then, the rain was pouring down in buckets. I was drenched; Gástwynde, my gelding, was soaked and spooked. The stable was not much shelter, so I went across the street to what looked like an inn.”

“There were people there. I heard them when I entered. They were crass, rude. The place stank of unwashed bodies and smoke. There was a barmaid-” At this, Haleth perked up, “who might have been passing fair, but she was painted like a whore, her lips were blood red and I had the feeling she wanted to bite me. They taunted me, demanded I join them, pay them for their company, when a man from back rose from the smoke. They backed away and he took me upstairs to a room in the back. It was warm and dry and I stayed there for the night, a day, and the next night. I was unable to see his face and he bid me to stay put and not leave. He brought me nourishment, told me my horse was cared for. It thundered and lightninged the entire time, a raging storm. I saw it strike a tree, away from the town, burned it to a cindercrisp. I thought I would go raving mad cooped up. On the second morning, the thunder and lightning stopped, but it still poured. The man told me to run, saddle my horse and go. He gave me food and drink and bid me leave and not look back. He told me to ride hard until I found a crofter’s hut at the end of the day, to stop nowhere until the sun set. The farmer would care for my horse and me. As he was leaving, I finally got a good look at him.”

“Who was it?”

Gamling breathed deeply. Normally, he was a man of very few words and all this had parched his throat. “It was my mother’s da. He had been dead some five summers. When I was little, he would put me in the saddle with him and ride like a crazy man, laughing at the breeze. He taught me to not fear the wind in my face, how to judge a horse by its gait. My sisters teased me when he died, because I cried. Beornia was wretched about it, so I hit her and knocked her into the mud, which angered my mother. My da took me to the barn he said, to set my tail on fire, but he held me close and told me to cry it out. ‘Sometimes, a man has to cry,’ he told me. ‘There is nothing unseemly about it.’” Gamling took the flask from Haleth, taking another swig. “I rode as if winged things of the night chased my very soul. True to his word, I passed several run down farmhouses, until the sun set, until I found the crofter and his wife. They took me in, fed my horse sweet oats and stuffed me with food. It rained again that night and I could hear the things screaming at me, demanding I come out. That crofter just sat in his chair, with his pipe glowing in the night, watching the fireplace. The next day, they fed me again, loaded me with food and told me I was lucky.” He took one last drink, before handing what was left to Haleth. “I have never spoken of it; not to my da, not to anyone.” He looked at Haleth in the dying light. “Until you. It exists, Haleth. It exists.”

All was quiet for a few minutes.

“I saw my da, Gamling. He pulled me from the common room, away from… away from her. My da watched me all night.”

Gamling stood up and held his hand down to pull up the boy. “I figured you must have. It is a gift, Haleth, to know the ones we love who have gone on, still watch over us.” He started walking, sensing Haleth behind him. “Haleth, be careful who you speak of it to.”

“I do not wish to speak of it to anyone.” He gulped for air. “I miss him so.”

“I know you do.”

“I wish he were here, to see me raised.” Gamling stopped, stayed quiet, for he sensed the torrent about to break. Haleth stood still, his fists clenched at his sides. “Damn that warg-rider! He stole my life! He should have been here!”

At that moment, Gamling did what his father had done for him when he grieved his mother’s da. He reached and clutched him to him, wrapping him in a hard embrace, while the teen finally released all the pent up suffering. “He should have been here! He should have seen it, seen me! He should have been here!”

“He did, Haleth. He did.”

*** 

Later, as Gamling and Aefre were sitting about the fire, Éomer came around, speaking to his Marshals and Captains. He sat down next to Gamling and watched as Aefre filled his mug with caffe. “I saw you with Haleth. Is he alright?”

“Missing his da.”

“Ah. Anything I should know about?”

Gamling was starring into the fire, deep in thought. “He had an adventure.” His eyes rolled over to Éomer over his own mug. “The kind you do not wish to speak of.”

Éomer winced. “Too young. Too young to go through that.” He stood up and patted the Marshal on the shoulder. “I will help keep an eye tomorrow. Tell him to come ride with me and Lothiriel a ways.”

Aefre’s ears were perked. “He went through Witnung? This early?” The men looked at her aghast. “I had a brother. My da told us the same stories.” She studied her own mug. “It is not that big of a secret.”

Éomer leaned over. “Neither are the hairpins, my lady.” He held up five fingers. “Five. We are to have five! But hopefully, not for another year.” He stretched and arched his back until it popped. “She might kill me before then.”

*** 

They made a stop at Gamling’s family homestead in the Westfold. Léoma made the rounds through the men, especially her da before reaching her mother. Where she wanted to perch on every shoulder, she was content to cuddle up under Aefre’s chin and go to sleep. Aefre teared up the first time her daughter said ‘Mama.’

As they were leaving, Gamling’s four summers old niece, Gaberas ran into the courtyard and threw herself crying at Éomer’s feet. Éomer picked her up as if she were his own and snuggled her. “What is wrong, dearest?”

“YOU WERE S’POSED TO WAIT FOR ME!” Her nose was running and Sulis ran from the house when she heard the commotion. “YOU WERE NOT S’POSED TO GET MARRY-ED!”

“Sweetling, I am sorry,” Éomer was cajoling. “When you grow up and are a beautiful woman, I will be an old and decrepit man.” He bounced her to his hip. “Surely, you would prefer…” he searched his memory for the outrageous little elfling imp that traveled to Gondor with Arwen’s wedding party, “Tamtheril?” 

“Tamtheril is an elf!” Gaberas wailed. “He will never grow up!” 

Sulis attempted to take her daughter from the king. “Sire, I am so sorry. I do not know where she gets-“

“”Tis all right.” He continued to attempt to cajole the young girl, noticing his bride was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “I am certain you will grow up and find a young and handsome rider. You would not wish to be stuck with an old wrinkled man-“

“He eats in the bed.” Lothiriel interrupted with a smile. “He leaves crumbs in the sheets. It is most irritating.”

“Food? In the bed?” Gaberas wiped her nose on Éomer’s sleeve. “But Mama says that is what the table is for.”

“Your mama is right!” Éomer nodded in agreement. “It is a very bad habit I have.”

“But-“

“He also passes wind in the tub,” Lothiriel attempted to keep her voice down, but of course it carried on the breeze, causing the adults to snicker.

Gaberas looked at her king with snarl of contempt. “In the tub?” She closed her eyes and turned in disgust. “I can wait.” She made a face as Éomer allowed her to slide down his leg and she stormed off behind her mother.

“Pass wind in the tub?” Éomer looked at his wife in mock despair. “Could you not come up with something less…”

“Rohirrim like?” Lothiriel finished for him. “It is my understanding, that is what you all do!” 

Éomer scowled and headed to his horse. As he passed Gamling, he snarled, “We need to talk about the things your wife is telling my wife!”

Gamling waited until the king passed. “And this is my fault how?”

*** 

They entered Edoras in traditional style; Lothiriel perched on Éomer’s lap, Nihtweard’s reins tied to Firefoot’s saddle. They were both wearing bridal wreaths and they welcomed the feast that was made for their arrival. There was much noise and singing and Lothiriel overheard Aefre and Gamling tell more than one person that they themselves had seen her wrapped in Éomer’s cloak. As the party wore on into the night, the two snuck off to the king’s chambers. When they shut the door, Éomer made a mental note to corner Aefre and kiss her well, to thank her for making sure the rooms were perfect.

They lay in the bed, cocooned in each other’s arms, tired, exhausted and completely content. They both were staring into the canopy of the bed.

“Happy?”

“Yes, Éomer. Very.”

“Good.”

Silence. 

“If you are ever unhappy, please tell me. I will do whatever-“

“Éomer.” She squeezed his hand. “I am happy and tired. Please blow out the lamp.“

“Ah. Goodnight.” The single lamp was blown out.

There was noise out in the yard below the window.

“Éomer?” 

“Yes?” 

“What was that?” 

“I am sure we will find out in a minute.”

A moment later, the most Béma-awful warbling rose through the window.  
 _As Éomer King stood by his Tub,  
To shew his vicious Inclination;   
He gave his noblest Parts a Scrub,   
And sigh'd for want of Copulation...'_

Although it was dark, Éomer could sense his wife’s jaw was now slack. “Is that …Gamling?”

“And Elfhelm.” 

_Free and frolick we'll couple gratis  
Thus we'll show all the Human Race;   
That the best of the Marriage State is,   
Lothiriel’s and Éomer’s Case._

“Éomer! Are you going to do anything about that?”

“Why?” He squeezed her tight. “They will pass out eventually. Or their wives will come and get them.”

Their wives came two songs later. Soon it was quiet again.

“Éomer?”

“Aye?”

“Do you think we could get mirrors for the canopy in this bed?”

And there was laughter in Edoras.

_***fini***_

_Ástígend - Rider  
clǽne yrfeweard o Eorlingas. – a true son of Erol the Young, a true son of Rohan.  
Ástandan – Rise  
Níðheard – bold in battle  
Daranau - thunder_

_Love! Rohirrim Style  
Began 08/11/2011  
Finished 09/14/2011_


End file.
